


The Writing on the Wall

by DasMervin, MrsHyde (DasMervin)



Series: The Writing on the Wall [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accepting Sam, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Asexuality, Canon-Typical Violence, Confused Castiel, Confused Dean, Destiel - Freeform, Drama, Emotional Constipation, Explicit Language, Family Feels, First Kiss, First Time, Genderless Character, Guilty Castiel, Hand Jobs, Headcanon, Heavy Angst, Heavy Petting, Homophobic Language, Human Castiel, If it's you it's okay, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Oblivious Castiel, Season Seven that Wasn't, Slash, Slow Burn, Worldbuilding, glacial build, somewhat cisist views
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-12
Updated: 2013-08-29
Packaged: 2017-12-23 04:01:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 65,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/921742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DasMervin/pseuds/DasMervin, https://archiveofourown.org/users/DasMervin/pseuds/MrsHyde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The writing was on the wall—and now Dean just had to try and understand it.  A Post-Season Six alternate universe, going a different route from what happened in Season Seven and exploring a long and difficult relationship between Dean and Castiel.  Canon-compliant up through the finale of Season Six, with some Season Seven thrown in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shoot to Thrill

**Author's Note:**

> **Author's Note:** All right, so we have to preface this with a bit of explanation. At the end of Season Six, it appeared that Castiel was going to be the Big Bad of Season Seven, and Mrs. Hyde and I were eagerly speculating what was going to happen. In the interim, inspired by some of our discussion of bad Supernatural fanfic tropes, Mrs. Hyde wrote a small fic refuting the common badfic trope where Sam becomes an OOC homophobic creep in the face of Dean getting together with Cas for the sake of conflict. As it was during the post-Season Six Hellatus, she incorporated some of our headcanon about what might happen at the end of Season Seven if Godstiel was our bad guy.
> 
> And we just ran with it. Her little starter fic inspired a ton of headcanons in both of us. See, we are terrible canon sticklers, so while we very much enjoy slashing and speculation for fun, we do not take it as canon. Castiel has been portrayed as literally and figuratively asexual: angels are sexless and genderless beings who can take male or female vessels, they do not sexually reproduce, and while some angels just jump right in once they’re in human form, Cas has been shown to be alarmed, confused, and bored by human sexuality. And not only is he apparently aromanitc and asexual, he is also currently possessing Jimmy Novak, and we have not had it clarified if his soul is still in that vessel. With such massive complaints about rape when Sam slept with Ruby while she was possessing someone, forcing the writers to make it clear that her body was otherwise empty, we feel it’s a terrible double standard to ignore the same potential situation with Cas and Jimmy. Dean, meanwhile, has idealized heteronormative views, has always displayed a very mild homophobia—which we do not take as repression on his part, just a typical macho guy reaction—and has in-canon stated outright that he “doesn’t swing that way.” We enjoy our slash, but we simply can’t bring ourselves to actively ship him in any homosexual relationship unless its canon confirmed. You can argue that he’s a closeted bisexual, yes, but if he is he’s so far in the closet that he’ll never come out, and there is no canonical evidence that he has ever even considered a relationship with another man. We have such rigid views as to SPN canon and characterization that we can never bring ourselves to enjoy any Dean/Cas slashfic.
> 
> But with Mrs. Hyde’s fic, suddenly we had a way that we thought _worked_. Dean was still straight, Cas was still asexual, but now we had a reason that we thought they could develop a romance without being against canon or out of character and removing Jimmy from the equation. So what started out as oneshot about Sam being a good and understanding brother with the backdrop of The Season Seven that Wasn’t rapidly turned into a monster fic that explored the ups and downs of a completely heterosexual man suddenly finding himself romantically attracted to another man. And, incidentally, was an outlet for a whole lot of our frustrated slash fangirl-ism—meaning porn, and lots of it.
> 
> But we just felt the need to warn anyone embarking on this fic: It was written with our very particular take on the Dean/Cas ship, meaning that we’re still writing Dean as straight and Cas as asexual—but just that they are each the other’s exception to the rule. There will be no sudden acceptance on Dean’s part—he still identifies as straight, is not attracted to other men (and is not really even physically attracted to Cas, just emotionally) and there will be a lot of internalized homophobia. Not to mention that both parties are notorious for being unable to communicate, which just makes it worse. In short, development will be painfully slow, and there will be no complete resolution of Dean gracefully and happily coming out of the closet. This isn’t so much a traditional slashfic as it is what we hope is a realistic and in-character take of a fundamentally straight man coming to grips with being in a relationship with another man. We know that it’s not a particularly common take on the ship and not necessarily everyone’s cup of tea, so we just wanted to be clear up front.
> 
> Sorry for the long-winded A/N, just thought you might need some explanation before getting into it. Thank you, and we hope you enjoy the piece. 
> 
> This series was conceived at the end of Season 6 and is canon compliant through Episode 6.23. The bulk of the work was written before and during Season 7, so some parts of S7 canon were incorporated in. Any resemblance to/compliance with canon in Season 8 was entirely a lucky guess on our parts.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** _Supernatural_ is the property of Kripke Enterprises and Warner Bros. Television. No copyright infringement is intended, and no profit is being made from this work.

_May 2012_

Dean doubted that finding Death at Bobby’s kitchen table on a _good_ day would fill him with warm fuzzies. Finding him sitting there on a bad day, though, really meant things were taking a turn for the crappy. After all, it’d made his already shitty day even shittier when Death had shown up after he’d bailed on wearing his ring. Really, the plain and simple fact of it was that there just _wasn’t_ a good time to find Death in the kitchen.

But when he walked into the kitchen _today_ and there was Death, quietly going through a paper bag with a Coke sitting on the table in front of him, he knew he was royally fucked. They all were.

“Dean,” Death said by way of greeting, his voice filled with that same icy indifference it always was, so Dean couldn’t tell how pissed he was because of it. But he knew he had to be—why the fuck else would he be here? He was not about to believe it was some kind of magical coincidence that he, Sam, and Bobby had just gotten their hands on a binding spell courtesy of Crowley, and then Death just _happened_ to show up the night they started gathering all the ingredients to do it.

“Sit.” Death’s voice was still calm, but it cut through the choking silence like a whipcrack. Dean tried to make his knees work, but he was having a little trouble—his natural urge to immediately do what Death told him to do was currently struggling with his pants-crapping fear. But he managed after a few seconds, unlocking his knees to lurch for the indicated chair, swallowing hard and clenching his hands into fists, feeling the cold sweat on his palms.

He sat gingerly beside Death, his eyes wide, and some crazy part of his brain noted that the pickle chips Death was eating smelled pretty damn good. Death didn’t offer him one.

The silence was horrible. This was a million times worse than any silence he’d ever had with Death—which meant it was worse than pretty much any silence he’d had to sit through in his life. Worst of all, he _knew_ that Death was doing it on purpose—he was drawing this out because he could. Because he knew that Dean knew that they all knew and just…he had to do something. Say something. _Anything._

Dean swallowed hard again, his mouth like cotton. “It’s my fault,” he blurted out.

Death finished chewing and took a sip of his drink through his straw before leveling a very even, completely unreadable look right at Dean. “Pardon?”

The floor dropped out from under Dean. He couldn’t think, couldn’t talk, because—he didn’t really—fuck, _what_ —

“This, you mean?”

Dean blinked. There was the ancient, tattered yellow parchment with the incantation and spell work on it that Crowley had left on their doorstep, right in his hand. Death didn’t look at it. “Did you think that I wasn’t aware of your little scheme?

The paper vanished in another eye blink. Death calmly lowered his hand and went back to his pickle chips.

_Fuck._

After another silence where in Dean waited and sweated bullets and imagined all of the ways Death intended to completely end him and wondered why he wasn’t _doing_ it already, Dean forced his throat to unlock. “Then—you don’t need to…do anything to Sam,” he managed hoarsely. “Or Bobby. They just…went along with it. It was all me. They—”

“Had the sense to know that it was a very bad idea,” Death cut him off again. “They thought it was ridiculous, they thought you were insane, and they wanted no part of the demon’s proposition, but as usual, you were reckless and irresponsible and supremely idiotic, and so ignored their protests and did it anyway. You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.” He looked back up at Dean, and his gaze was cold.

Dean barely managed to return it, wanting instead to stare at the tabletop. But he didn’t—if this was the end…well, he wanted to face it, like he always did. “I’m…”

“What, Dean?” Death, asked, his mouth pursed when Dean trailed off and couldn’t continue. “Don’t tell me you’re sorry, because we both know that you are only sorry that you were caught.” He wiped his mouth with the paper napkin in his fist. “I’m not entirely sure why you didn’t think you would be, really. Perhaps you just overestimated the Mark you bear.”

Dean didn’t deny it—because truthfully, he _had_ been hoping that the Mark of Cain would extend all the way to Death. After all, for the past year it had hidden them from the King of Hell and the New God and everything in between. It almost seemed possible…

Death seemed to know exactly what he was thinking—in fact, he probably did. “The Mark of Cain hides you from your enemies, Dean—but it does not hide you from God, and it most _certainly_ does not hide you from Death. I’m almost disappointed that you thought it would.”

He took another sip of his drink before continuing, his cheeks becoming even more hollow as he pulled on his straw. “Almost disappointed, but certainly not _surprised_ ,” he added, his voice tinged with a faint trace of…not quite disgust, simply because hardly anything was worth that much of Death‘s emotional investment, but it definitely wasn’t flattering.

Dean was way too scared shitless to even bother trying to be indignant by the tacit insult.

He wasn’t sure why he was opening his mouth to try and keep explaining himself; after all, if Death had decided already that they needed to be bitchslapped for even thinking about binding him, it wasn’t like trying to make excuses would change his mind. “We were desperate,” Dean managed. “It was—just our last hope, and all—”

“If you’d listened to me over a year ago when I warned you about the souls in the first place, you wouldn’t be desperate now,” Death said, sounding mildly exasperated this time. “I warned you then, and you decided that chasing after _monsters_ and letting that fool angel do as he pleased was much more appealing. Your desperation is your own fault—and your so-called solution is unacceptable.”

The look he gave Dean made his balls try to crawl up inside his pelvis and hide. “Not to mention that it shows your usual level of foresight and intelligence—that you actually thought that you could forcibly drag me into the fray to clean up _your_ mess—and no doubt were sure that it would take nothing more than a simple wave of my hand.”

Dean couldn’t help but speak. “All we would’ve wanted—all we would’ve _asked_ was that you—” He swallowed. “—kill him. You’re the only one left that we could think of that…that could kill _God_.”

Dean skewered him with a look that made Dean both shrink in his seat and bow up indignantly, because it didn’t matter that he was Death Himself, Dean never liked being looked at like he was the biggest dumbass to walk the earth. “You said you could do it,” he said, unable to help himself. “You said that you would kill God—”

“That arrogant little soldier ant calls himself God, kills a handful of people to ‘prove’ it, and you just believe it, Dean?” Death’s expression was one of the most clearly-defined “bitch, please” looks Dean had ever seen, and he felt every inch of it. “That pathetic creature is nothing but a mutated angel with delusions of grandeur—he’s no more _God_ than you are.”

Before Dean had time to process that news and try to think of anything to say, Death continued. “I take it from your response that you truly do believe that the solution to your little problem is as simple as me just reaching out and taking away what little life Castiel has left, yes?” He gave Dean a withering glance. “An easy answer is _never_ the answer. Reaping Castiel would be simple. But did you give any thought to what would happen once he _was_ reaped?”

Death crumpled up his used napkin before tossing it into the empty bag of pickle chips. “Castiel is the only thing holding those souls together. He is harnessing and channeling all of their power and energy. Kill him, and they are now unbound and free. You _do_ remember that one of the risks of his taking in the souls in the first place was his vessel simply being unable to take it and exploding, I assume. That risk did not magically vanish once he swallowed them successfully.”

Dean _did_ remember. In fact, his desperate gamble to chain Death and use him to kill Cas had been _because_ he remembered that warning. The last time they’d seen Cas…right after Bobby’d been gunned down by Cas’s own fucking cult members…

Dean swallowed. He’d looked… _terrible._ His eyes had…they’d been dulled, the clear blue darker and clouded. And his skin…his vessel was feeling the strain. He’d seemed _burned_ , somehow, and when he’d reached out and put Bobby’s soul back into his broken body, Dean had seen the way the spidery veins in his hand had been…dark. Blackening.

Once more, Death seemed to know his train of thought. “In fact, once he swallowed them, it stopped being a risk and became a certainty.” His tone was sharper now. “What he started with Purgatory, he has continued with the souls of the newly-dead. You know that souls are power; it rapidly became a competition between Crowley and Castiel—to see who could snatch up a soul first. At the moment Castiel is the dubious victor because Crowley is bound by demonic deals while Castiel is not. He is free to take whichever souls he pleases, and he is now doing so without restraint. That will be his downfall. He is breaking under the strain of containing that much raw energy, and he won’t last much longer. You can only stretch thin, human skin, or even angelic grace, so far before it snaps.”

“Uh, I’m sorry—he won’t last?” Dean repeated hoarsely. “And then the planet goes with him?”

“Yes,” Death replied simply. “But that is not the issue, Dean.”

“I’m having a little trouble seeing how it isn’t,” Dean blurted out, but then snapped his mouth shut when Death raised an eyebrow.

“You’re having trouble because you refuse to see anything beyond large, eye-catching explosions,” he said dismissively. “Do you honestly think that I’m here because I care what happens to this miserable little planet?”

Dean’s mouth opened and closed uselessly; Death looked supremely disinterested in his struggle.

“I am here, Dean,” he continued, his voice filled with patronizing patience, “because that angel is devouring souls—human souls. The souls of Purgatory were not my concern, but now his need for the power of fresh souls has caused him to interfere with what _is_ my concern—the reaping of the dead.” Death looked at him. “The people he kills may die, Dean, but they are not being reaped. Castiel is snatching and eating their souls before they are taken by my Reapers and preventing them from reaching their final destinations. In doing so, he has disturbed the natural order—he has disturbed _me_.”

Dean didn’t need to be told that that was about the worst thing that Cas could have done—the last person who got up in Death’s business had been Lucifer, and look how _that_ turned out for him.

 _And don’t forget that you were lining up to be the next one to try it_ , his smartass brain sneered at him, but he told it to shut up. “But—why?” he asked, refusing to let his throat lock up in the face of Death’s disdain. “He’s got the soul of every monster that ever died—enough juice to completely ice an archangel. What the hell does he want more for? It can’t be just because he and Crowley are having a pissing contest.”

Death almost rolled his eyes. “Hardly,” he said dryly—well, drier than he usually was, if such a thing was possible. He took the last drink of his Coke, making sucking sounds in his straw as he pulled up the last of it. “If it was, the little demon would not have come running to you. Despite what all of you may think, it is no longer about power for Castiel—it’s a matter of desperation.”

Death tucked his empty cup in his paper sack and neatly rolled up the top, setting it in the middle of the table before turning to Dean, and his gaze was no longer bored or derisive, but razor-sharp. “The real battle going on here is between Castiel and the souls that he contains—and he is losing. That night in Kansas, he swallowed millions upon millions of monsters, and the instant they were within him, they set upon him and attacked. The more they tore at him, the more difficult it became to control them. It was only a matter of time before he began snatching the souls of the dead away from my Reapers.”

Death shifted in his seat, crossing his legs before leaning forward slightly. “The souls from Purgatory are deformed, ragged, and barely a fraction of what the pure, whole human soul is—barely a fraction of that _power_ ,” he said, his voice low. “Castiel began taking the souls of humans to use their power to control the violent souls already within him. But those from Purgatory are still monsters, and monsters destroy humans. The moment a new human soul is brought within their midst, they set upon it and begin tearing it to pieces, and soon it is just another weakened, blackened soul that turns on him, and thus Castiel has lost another power source and added another problem to his collection.

“And so he continues to swallow up more and more souls in an effort to keep rein on the ones he has already consumed, even as it results in their increasing numbers, and they are tearing him apart from the inside. And the weaker he becomes, the more souls he wants—the more souls he _needs_.”

And amazingly, Dean understood without having to ask for any further explanation—because he suddenly understood what had happened with Bobby. Cas had brought Bobby back to life—he’d not done it out of the kindness of his heart, of course, not by a long shot, but he’d done it in the hopes that he and Sam would stop trying to bring him down and would give themselves up and just kneel before him and all that shit. That part didn’t matter right now—what mattered was the _way_ Cas had done it. It hadn’t been just the little two-finger tap to the head. No, the way he’d pulled Bobby’s soul out of _himself_ —fucking _hell_ , Cas had _eaten_ Bobby’s soul, Dean realized in horror. Dean had just assumed he’d found it in Heaven, but no. He’d—

But it’d been his face. The way he’d reached forward…he’d put Bobby’s soul back, just as he’d magnanimously said he would, but Dean had seen it. He’d stared at Bobby’s soul, bright and glowing in his hand…and he’d hesitated. Dean had, at the time, figured he was just drawing it out or trying to make them beg him to do it. But now…

“He is nearing the end of his tether.” Death’s voice snapped Dean out of it. “Castiel can no longer make do with merely taking the souls of the dead. I’m sure you saw what happened with his little cult.”

“Yeah. I saw,” Dean answered flatly. They _all_ saw. And Dean would hardly call it a _little_ cult. They’d seen that on the news—a mass suicide, over 1,200 people on a hillside, all dead.

“That was at Castiel’s instigation. He gathered them together, told them it was time to serve their god, and killed every last one of them so he could gulp down their souls. His flock is dwindling rapidly even as we speak; he is methodically eating his way through them. Within the week, I expect they will all be dead,” Death continued, folding his hands on the table.

Dean couldn’t seem to move—this was all way too much information. He—Jesus Christ, he’d known Cas was doing seriously fucked-up shit, but—this was _beyond_ fucked-up. And now Cas was gonna explode and kill every single person on the planet. All because he—

“And now here we are, this planet once again on the edge of immolation, all because you did not listen to me _months_ ago.”

Dean’s jaw clenched. “Well, I’m sorry. Maybe if you’d been a little more _clear_ —”

“Perhaps if you’d concentrated on souls rather than chasing your own tails, that wouldn’t have happened,” Death interrupted smoothly. “However, because you never listen, it did. And now, because you failed, the natural order is disturbed, my Reapers are being interrupted in their work, and now I am here because I have had enough of it. I have watched and waited for this nonsense to be sorted out, and now I’ve come to tell you what to do so that you can clean up your own mess.”

For a second, Dean just sat there, staring hard at the tabletop as Death tore him yet _another_ new asshole, but then he finally realized what he’d just said.

He finally met Death’s gaze again. “You—you’re here to _help_?” Dean asked slowly, struggling with the notion that Death _wasn’t_ in fact here to destroy him.

“No,” Death said flatly. “I’m here to tell you to stop running in circles and actually do something useful and so that I can get back to my own work.”

Dean took the insult. “Okay, useful—so what do we do?”

“ _You_ , Dean. What do _you_ do.” Dean stared at him. “I am _here_ ,” Death went on, “because you are the only one who can solve this. The angel is already dying, so this will come to an end one way or another, but if you wish to save your beloved planet, I cannot merely reap Castiel—I must reap all the souls he contains. But Castiel is holding tightly to them. They are the only things keeping him alive, so he will not give them up unless you convince him to do so—and only if he gives them up willingly and expels them himself can I take them and channel them properly and prevent the earth from detonating. Your only hope is to convince him to release the souls,” Death finished.

“Convince him,” Dean repeated, staring incredulously at Death—he may have been still reeling from what Death was telling him, but not enough to let that slide. “I just… _convince_ him to let them go.”

“You have a knack for repeating the obvious.” His voice was contemptuous. “Yes, Dean, that is what you will do. You will go to the town of Agar, in South Dakota. There are little but fields and open country surrounding the town—find one. Summon Castiel to you in any way you see fit. Once he arrives, make him angry. I trust that with your capacity for idiocy you will have no difficulty in accomplishing this task. After he kills you, he will devour your soul—”

“ _What?!_ ”

Dean didn’t have the good sense to cower when Death’s mouth thinned at the interruption. He was way, _way_ too in shock from that last bombshell.

Death spoke before Dean could demand just what the _fuck_ kind of a plan that was. “It’s time to pay the price of your earlier failures,” Death said coldly. “Did you honestly expect that you could simply walk up to Castiel and politely ask him to give up the power? You can’t reason with him—not now. Castiel is not in control anymore, Dean—he lost his mind the minute he swallowed the twisted souls of Purgatory. Trying to speak to him as you are now would be futile—for all practical purposes, he is no longer Castiel.”

“No, wait—back this up, I don’t—” Dean stumbled over his words, because he could not comprehend any of this. Death had officially lost him back at “you’re gonna die”.

Death allowed him two more seconds of flailing before speaking over him. “Trying to convince Castiel to do anything right now is like trying to ask the human under demonic or angelic possession to change his behavior. Castiel is buried beneath millions upon millions of warped, monstrous souls—and while he controls their power and keeps them contained, _they_ control _him_ , and make him direct the power as they wish.” Death sounded only mildly put out by the fact that Dean was having a hard time processing this—how fucking generous of him.

“So you’re—you’re telling me that Cas is—Cas is friggin’ _possessed_? That—this whole time, it’s just—it never really was…” Dean trailed off, struggling to wrap his brain around all of this and knowing full well that there was no fucking way he could, because this was too much.

“That is the closest approximation to what’s happened to him, I suppose,” Death said indifferently. He unfolded his hands and wrapped one hand around the cane leaning against the table. “But not exactly—you will not be able to simply ‘get through to him’ as you did when Sam and Bobby were possessed. This is not nearly so easy. A strong human can fight through one angel or one demon and regain control. One low-grade angel cannot possibly battle millions of souls.”

Death leveled a particularly serious look at him. “The only way you will be able to speak to him is to speak to the _angel_ , not to the vessel. And the angel is buried inside beneath millions of ravenous souls and can’t escape. At this point, he is not simply fighting to keep from losing control of the horde—he is fighting to stay alive. Those souls have been tearing him to pieces since he took them in, and by now there is hardly anything left of him. They are killing him, and his grip on the souls is the only thing keeping him alive—and that is the only thing he is aware of. No one can reach him from the outside. _You_ have to find him now; he can’t find himself.”

Dean licked his lips, closing his eyes briefly. “And…to do that, I have to…let him _kill_ me.”

“Yes.”

_Jesus fucking Christ…_

“It has to be you, Dean. There is no one else that can do it,” Death continued.

“Like I’d—let someone else do it,” Dean muttered, struggling to make his heart stop pounding so hard, his hands curled into fists on the table.

“Put aside your martyr complex,” Death replied, sounding mildly annoyed. “While the angel may be your pet and thus your responsibility to put down, I’m speaking simply of the facts—there is no one else who can do this.”

Dean’s chin had jutted reflexively at Death’s words, but he just kept his eyes down as he continued.

“For one, Castiel has had contact with your soul before, when he brought you out of Hell. He knows you—he will be able to recognize your soul when he sees it again, which is likely your one hope to get through to him. Secondly, of the possible candidates for the job, your soul is simply the strongest and most suited for the task.”

Dean’s head snapped up, and he couldn’t help but give him a scathing, disbelieving look, and he quickly regretted it because Death met his gaze and raised him a “don’t fuck with me” stare. “You have been to Hell, Dean,” Death said, as if Dean had somehow forgotten that cheerful little fact. “You have experienced true torture of the soul, know what to expect, and know how to resist, and so stand a chance to keep what little wit you have about you when you are attacked by the souls holding Castiel captive.”

Dean almost interrupted, but Death’s unwavering stare kept him quiet. “Your brother’s soul was permanently damaged by his experiences in Lucifer’s cage,” he said, forestalling any pointless objections Dean might have been trying to voice. “It is scarred and weakened and would likely be torn apart before he reached the angel. Your soul, Dean, is toughened, experienced, and still whole. Only you have a chance to fight through the souls to find what is left of Castiel and make him let them go.”

Death uncrossed his legs and planted his cane between them. Dean only saw it peripherally; he just kept staring at the tabletop, still unable to come to grips with _anything_ that had just been dumped on him. All of it—the deaths of Cas’s cult, the idea of monster possession, the fact that it _wasn’t_ Cas this whole time, not really, it was something else, but that Cas—the _real_ Cas—was still in there somewhere but he was _dying_ , he was gonna take the whole planet with him if he did, and Dean—Dean was gonna have to fucking _die_ —

“Now, as I was saying.” Dean jumped in his seat; Death was speaking again, his voice conversational. “Once the angel kills you and swallows your soul, you will find yourself in the clutches of the souls that are destroying him.”

Dean just stared, struggling past his disbelief that Death was just sitting there going on about what Dean would have to do _after he fucking died_ so that he could listen.

“You will have to pay attention for a change,” Death informed him. “The moment Castiel takes your soul, you will be set upon by the legion. If you cannot keep your admittedly tiny mind set on your task, you will lose control and be devoured just as every other soul has been—torn apart and turned into just another mindless monster.”

Death looked him straight in the eye, and any other time, Dean might have quailed, but not now. Not after this. And for the tiniest moment, Dean thought Death might have looked pleased, but no, he never was anything but bored and derisive, and he was still speaking. “You cannot let that happen, Dean,” he said firmly. “You must remember who you are, and you must resist them and fight your way down to find where Castiel has been buried.”

“And—” Dean licked his lips with a tongue like sandpaper. “And then what?”

“Then you tell him to let them go.”

And with that, Death got to his feet, leaning unnecessarily on his cane. “Agar, South Dakota. 11:40 p.m., in two days’ time,” he repeated calmly. “Don’t be late.”

Then he was gone.

* * *

Dean had never been on a death march. Not really. Sure, he’d died a few times— _fuck, what is my life?_ —but each time he’d gone into a situation knowing full well that he probably wouldn’t make it out alive, it…wasn’t the same thing. Because that was the key word— _probably._ When he’d been driving to face Lilith on the last night of the year he’d gotten from the demon deal, sure, he’d known that he probably wasn’t gonna make it. But he’d still…vaguely hoped. When he’d gone to Missouri to try and shoot Lucifer with the Colt, Cas had been all gloom and doom and had declared it their last night on earth and Dean had mostly believed him…but no, he’d still had that spark. And, of course, when he’d gone to that graveyard when Michael and Lucifer had been about to square off, he’d thought he’d completely accepted the death he thought he _knew_ was coming. But…there was always just a faint hope that maybe, just _maybe_ , things might work out and he wouldn’t die.

Not this time. Because he knew better. He had it from a credible source—the _most_ credible source. He was going to die in forty-eight hours in the middle of a field in South Dakota at the hands of a possessed angel.

Didn’t matter that he’d already died repeatedly. Didn’t matter he’d faced down death before. To know—to _really_ know, and not have the slightest bit of doubt or hope…

He finally raised his eyes, and there were the looks he’d known—he’d _feared_ —he’d see once he’d finished explaining to Bobby and—and to Sam just what Death himself had ordered Dean to do.

Bobby was leaned forward, his elbows on the table and his face buried in one of his hands, but Dean had seen his face before he’d hidden it. Sam still looked like he was in shock. Neither of them were saying anything.

Dean used the silence to his advantage, slowly pouring himself a half-glass of whiskey and not looking at them anymore. He couldn’t take it.

He’d taken three sips when Sam finally spoke. “No—there’s gotta be— _something_ , there has to be _something else_ —”

“It’s Death, Sam,” Dean interrupted, his voice rough. “He said you were the only one that could get Lucifer back in his box, and now he’s saying I’m the only one who can unplug Cas. You really think he’d just tell us this to fuck with us? He seem like a real kidder to you?”

Dean glanced up and saw Sam’s jaw clench. “That was different,” he said tightly. “I was—I was Lucifer’s vessel, so there weren’t any other options—”

“And I’m the only one here with a—” Dean grimaced. “—‘a tough and experienced soul,’ as he put it, and I’m the guy who knows— _knew_ Cas best. Summed up, Bobby hasn’t ever spent any time in Hell, and your soul is still laid up from Lucifer’s goin’ over.” Sam’s mouth tightened, and Dean gave him his best Big Brother Look. “Just ‘cause Cas sucked out the crazy going on in your head doesn’t mean you still don’t still have all those pains and nightmares, ‘cause I know you do,” he informed him

But he couldn’t look at Sam any longer than that. Dean set his glass back down, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Look, I _asked_. I really did—I didn’t just nod and say yes to Death’s plan of getting me killed. But…he said there isn’t any other way.” He swallowed. “Tomorrow night, I have to go out to a field in South Dakota and somehow make Cas kill me.”

Dean was getting really tired of having to say that out loud. Every time he did, his stomach swooped and his heart gave a hard, painful thump.

“Dean, there—we could still try to come up with something different,” Bobby said.

“No, we can’t,” Dean said, cutting him off. “We’ve been running our asses off all year trying to figure something out, and now we’re out of time. Cas is a ticking time bomb. If I don’t do this, he’s gonna die and go off and we’re _all_ gonna die with him. Every single person on Earth. So, either I go out and die and defuse him, or I don’t and the world ends.” Dean looked Sam straight in the eye. “I didn’t stop you from jumpin’ in the box and saving us all once. You really gonna stop me?”

“ _Don’t_ you try that!” Sam shouted, getting to his feet. “That was _my fault_! I let Lucifer out, so I put him back—this is _not_ the same thing at all and you _know_ it! This is not your fault, so don’t you—”

“This is nobody’s fault and you know it, Sam,” Bobby barked suddenly. “Sit down.”

Trembling, Sam sat down heavily, breathing hard. Bobby took a few deep breaths, his eyes shut, and then continued. “Dean, is…is there _any_ possibility for another plan?”

Dean looked him in the eye. “You really think that Death missed one?” he asked.

Bobby swallowed. “No,” he admitted quietly. He was silent for a moment more before he spoke again. “Sam, if this…this is all we got, then we have to go with it. Just like…lettin’ you die was our only shot before, then…”

Bobby didn’t finish the sentence. He just grabbed the bottle and poured himself a drink as well, tipping it back and drinking half of it in one go.

Sam’s hands were clenched into fists. “Dean—”

“Don’t, Sam,” Dean said quietly. “There…you think I want this? We’re out of options. This—we’ve been hiding from Cas and trying to figure out how to get rid of him all year, and all we came up with was jack squat and just let him get completely out of control. He’s about to explode and kill us all. Hell, he’s already on his way out—I told you that. He’s possessed and being…I dunno, _eaten alive_ in there, has been the whole year. I gotta—put him out of his misery. We just…even if there _is_ another option out there, we don’t have the time to find it. This is our one shot. We have to take it.” He closed his eyes again. “ _I_ have to take it.”

There was silence for a good long while. Dean didn’t even drink his whiskey while it pervaded. He just…didn’t feel like it.

Finally, Bobby sighed, and in a rough voice said, “All right.”

Dean raised his eyes to Bobby and saw the pain there, but he’d agreed and was in. Slowly, he looked to his brother as well. “Sammy? You with me?”

Sam was still, just staring back for a moment, his jaw clenched, but then…

“Yeah. I’m with you.”

And on that heavy note of finality, Dean finally reached for his drink again.

* * *

There was nothing in the field but dirt and some stray weeds—looked like nothing had grown in it all year. Dean could hear crickets and the breeze, but other than that, it was quiet. The night sky was completely clear, and this far from any big cities, Dean could see the night sky stretching from horizon to horizon and the glittering ribbon of the Milky Way winding over his head. The moon was a thin crescent, hanging low in the sky.

He glanced down at his watch. His heart lurched painfully—11:35. He had five minutes to get up the nerve to…

Dean sucked in a breath, staring around into the darkness surrounding him.

Bobby and Sam were somewhere out there—he’d tried to make them stay far, far away from this. He didn’t know if it was going to be a big bang or a little bang, but either way, he didn’t want the chance of Cas sniffing them out if they were nearby. Naturally, they’d refused—instead, they were hiding out, just…wanting to be there, he guessed. Why they’d want to _watch_ this was beyond him. It was different when it had been Sam—he’s just been along for the ride with Lucifer, not going out there on his own like he was, and Dean had needed to be there for him. But Sam had gotten quite fierce when Dean told him to scram, and he recognized that pinched little mouth and pointy chin he got and knew that the big bratty baby wasn’t going to go anywhere and that Dean couldn’t make him. They’d just…better not get caught if this went balls up, because if he failed and Cas won, he was gonna be pissed.

After all, Dean was going to see to it that he was.

Dean was still having trouble coming to grips with the fact that he was about to do this. It almost didn’t seem real. But it was—oh, it _so_ was. He was about to die. And he was gonna take Cas with him. And that was the _best_ -case scenario. The worst-case scenario was…not something he wanted to think about right now. He had enough on his plate. He couldn’t help but think about it, however, because if he failed, they _all_ died.

_Yeah, but you’ll be dead either way—so what do you care?_

Tightening his jaw, he sucked in a hard breath through his teeth. _Fuck that._ He’d care one way or another. He was _not_ gonna fail—the only people dying tonight were gonna be himself and Cas. If anything, he wasn’t gonna fail for the same reason he’d told Sammy he wouldn’t just before he’d said goodbye and walked out here: he wasn’t about to let his snot-nosed kid brother show him up in the self-sacrificing, angelic ass-kicking department.

 _Well, time to show him how it’s done_ , he thought grimly to himself, shoving all of the horrible twisting in his gut as far down as he could and ignoring the icy shiver down his spine.

_Time to die._

It only took him three more deep breaths before he got the nerve to do it. Tilting his head skyward, he swallowed and…well…prayed.

“ _Cas!_ ” he bellowed. “You been lookin’ for me—well, here I am, you son of a bitch! Right here, I know you can hear me, you shit-eating piece of fuck! Come out and face me—I’m ready for you!”

To be honest, Dean had expected a wait. He’d thought for sure Cas would draw it out and just let him sit there, or that he’d have to scream more obscenities to the sky to get him to drop out of it. But he heard it—that strange sizzle that preceded him now instead of the unearthly sound of wings.

“Dean.”

The voice that came from behind him was Cas, except it wasn’t—and he didn’t just mean that it was that serene, Hannibal Lecter voice he’d been hearing from him for most of the year. This was something else entirely. Dean whirled quickly, and there he was, right—

 _Holy_ God _…_

Dean’s resolve faltered when he saw him.

When he’d last seen Cas, he’d known he was sick. His serenity had been cracking then, and Dean had seen the burns appearing on his skin. But while they’d been noticeable, they’d been small. He’d still been, at least on the outside, recognizably Cas, which had made it all the worse.

But right now, Dean wouldn’t have needed Death to tell him that Cas was long-gone. This… _thing_ was not Cas.

The burns had turned into sores— _bleeding_ sores, cracked and oozing and staining his clothes. The blistered pattern under one eye almost made it look like he was crying blood. But it wasn’t just blood smeared on his skin. Blood, Dean could’ve handled. No, it was…the _black_. One eye only _looked_ like it was leaking blood—the other actually _was_ leaking, and that was not blood. It was just _black_ —his entire eye, oozing down in a sticky rivulet over his cheek, and that sludge was dripping out of his nose, out of the corner of his mouth, and—God, out his ear, too, that black was—fucking _Christ_ , it was in his _veins_ , crawling up his face and his neck and down his hands—

All of that was almost enough to distract him from how…insane Cas looked—but not quite. Dean could still see it. Cas was just staring at Dean, wobbling where he stood, dripping blood and black pus, and his gaze was… _hungry._

_One shot—get it together!_

Dean’s brain snapped him back to attention. He couldn’t just sit out here and have the vapors. He had to focus. He had to get back to the plan.

“Well, took you long enough,” he managed, still too stunned to even be aware that he had no reason to say that canned line anymore, because Cas hadn’t kept him waiting. “Busy killin’ your little minions, huh?”

Dean resisted the urge to shiver when Cas _grinned_ at him. “They serve God.” His voice was bubbling and horrible, and Dean swore he heard more than one voice talking. “And is that why you’ve called us? Are you ready to kneel before your God?”

Dean didn’t miss his pronoun, but he didn’t let it distract him. “Fuck no, you slime-dripping douchecanoe,” he sneered. “You really think I’m gonna get on my knees in front of you? I don’t swing that way.”

Cas’s manic grin had faded at Dean’s words, and now he was looking around, his one good eye rolling its socket, the other black and blank and dead. “Where is Sam?”

“He ain’t here,” Dean replied as sharply as he could manage, still struggling to get his guts back under that black stare. “He’s hidden, and he’s gonna stay that way. Really pisses you off that you can’t find us unless we _let_ you, huh? You couldn’t even remove the Mark when you had us there with you. Some god you are.”

Cas twitched a little, and Dean saw his fingers flex slightly. He looked like he was about to say something, but he didn’t—instead, he just coughed, blood and black snot splattering the dusty ground.

Dean figured he may as well use that as an advantage. “Wow. Real _grand_ there. Check out all your majesty—I’m sure what’s left of your cult is just lining up for you to hock black lugies on ‘em. You baptize ‘em with that shit or something? Awesome.”

Cas didn’t respond; he simply stared at him, his chin shining with blood, spit, and black goo. “We will repair ourselves when we have taken them all—then our work can begin again,” he rasped. “With _you_.”

“Hate to break it to you, princess,” Dean shot back, “but you aren’t gonna live long enough to finish off the rest of your Oompa-Loompas. Because I’m going to kill you.”

There was silence again. But not for long—Cas grinned again. “You can’t.”

“I can’t,” Dean agreed. “But I‘m pretty sure Death can. Sam’s gonna summon him—we got a binding spell from your old pal Crowley—he sends kisses, by the way. And when we use it, _Death_ is gonna kill you for us.”

Cas wasn’t grinning anymore. Dean ignored the shot of fear that stabbed his gut because Cas getting mad was the good sign. He chased it. “You’ve pissed off the wrong people, Sunshine. You’re gonna die, because we’re gonna be the ones to order Death to kill you.”

“You _won’t_ ,” Cas snarled.

“Yes, I will,” Dean growled right back. “I’m gonna kill you because you fucking deserve it. You’re a monster—just like any other supernatural fuckstick I’ve had to waste, so it’ll be just as easy to do it. I’ve been looking for a way to kill you all year. I want you _dead_. You hear me? You’re gonna die because _I’m gonna fucking kill you_!” And then he swung his arm up, his gun already in his hand, and he pulled the trigger.

He hadn’t been aiming at anything specific, but he still caught Cas in the chest. He barely flinched when the bullet tore through him, but he did stare down at the hole in his coat, looking almost…surprised. Dean just watched, panting, as black blood started oozing out of the bullethole, dripping down his coat.

Cas was just sitting there. He didn’t look mad. He didn’t look disappointed, irritated, anything. _Fuck._ Dean swallowed, trying to think of a new way to try and piss him off—he’d thought surely that would work, because any time they’d they run across him this last year and said anything about stopping him, he’d been seriously mad—

Cas looked back up, his one good eye huge while the other was still that glassy, shark’s-eye black. He stared at Dean, a drop of dark red trembling on his chin, and Dean stared back, unsure and afraid.

And then Cas laughed.

It was one of the most horrible sounds Dean had ever heard—just a horrible, cracking laugh that sounded like hundreds of laughs at once, all thick and bleeding together. It sounded painful and there was absolutely no joy or humor to it. Worst of all, it didn’t sound like _Cas_.

In an eyeblink, Cas’s hand swung up, his fingers spread wide, and for a single second, Dean got a clear view Cas’s face—and saw beyond that thick cackle, and saw what he’d wanted.

Saw the very clear, burning _hate_ there, every bit of it directed at _him_.

Cas’s fingers twitched.

And then Dean was dead.

* * *

_—TEETH—_

_—teeth claws biting tearing PAIN—_

_—oh god hurts make it stop—_

_(no, for we are legion and we must feed feed on you)_

_—no no NO it HURTS somebody HELP please god help anybody_ Sam _—_

_—Sam—_

Sam?!

“The _fuck_ I’m leaving to let you go out there and die,” Sam snarled, his eyes rimmed red, and then his arms were around Dean in a tight grip, squeezing, his breath hot in his ear and his heart pounding in his neck and his hair tickling his cheek because he never would cut it, the bratty little snot, and it didn’t matter that he was six-four, he was still his baby brother—

_SAM!!!_

_And then there were no teeth, no claws, no_ pain _, because those things suddenly recoiled, hissing and yammering but letting him go all the same—_

 _—because he_ remembered _, why he was here, he was here for_ Sam _, to_ save _Sam, to save Sam and Bobby and everybody else because he was_ Dean Fucking Winchester _, and he came here for Sam—and for_ Cas _!_

_And the claws and teeth that were drawing near again yanked away just as fast, and even though Dean had no mouth to laugh and no ears to hear it, he opened his mouth and laughed anyway, and he heard it, echoing through the nothing, and he heard the hissing and snarling all around him and he only laughed harder ‘cause there was fuck-all they could do about it._

_(you the one we hate we hate_ you _)_

_“That’s right, fuckstains, this is Dean Winchester talking, and I’ve spent my life wasting pieces of shit like you, and now that I’m dead I’m just gonna keep on truckin’.”_

_And he remembered all the filthy supernatural shit-suckers he’d ganked in his time, and he felt them closing in again, and even though he had no hands, he suddenly felt the memory of smooth wood in his hand and the heft of a blade and how it felt to curl his fingers around the handle, and he swung—_

_—and he heard a sudden shriek as he lopped off a head that wasn’t there, sending it rolling off into the infinite darkness where the others fought over it, and he laughed again and started swinging, and he knew there was no machete but he could feel it anyway, slicing through monsters right and left, and he heard them yowling and scrabbling away from him, and shit, the only thing better would be a gun, and then fuck yes, in his other hand he felt the cool ivory grip of his .45, and he brought that up and fucking_ unloaded _on those sons of bitches._

 _They were screaming now, and he was laughing, because fuck, this was better than a holodeck._ All right, programs, time for some real user power. _“That’s right, boys!” he hollered, and it wasn’t a machete or his .45 in his hands, it was two goddamn_ Uzis _. “Dean Winchester is in the house, and I’m here for Cas—my_ friend _Cas—” and they hissed and recoiled again, more than they had from his guns, “—and you’d all just better get the_ fuck _out of my way, ‘cause I’m shootin’ to kill!”_

 __Got my gun at the ready, gonna fire at will _, he thought, and shit, he still had no ears, but suddenly he heard it, booming through this hellhole, the opening riff of “Shoot to Thrill,” and it was AC/DC all the way, and all the writhing monsters screamed in agony, even more than when his bullets that didn’t exist tore through them, and Dean roared with laughter._

 _There was no up or down or side to side, just gnashing teeth and ripping claws and burning eyes, but he could feel where they were thicker, and when he looked, he could see that it was below the feet he didn’t have._ Fight my way down to Cas? All right—I’m fighting.

And my enemy’s gate is _down_.

 _And even though there was nothing there, he felt ground beneath his feet and he pushed off, he jumped and he dived headfirst into the gibbering nightmare beneath him, because he was saving Sam and he was saving Cas and he was saving the fucking_ world _, and they all parted before him and he plunged down into it. It was all thick and black and sharp and slimy but he was still moving, but not fast enough, he wanted_ faster _, and he started clawing his way through them, going faster and faster, and there was nothing, no air, and no him, but he could feel the wind rushing past him all the same, because he wasn’t diving, he was_ flying _._

I’m gonna take you down—down, down, down—Fuck TRON, dude, I’m goddamn _Iron Man, and when he thought it there was a flash of not-light on his feet and his fucking_ engines _kicked in and he shot forward, and he howled in manic glee and raised his hands and_ blasted _the fuckers in front of him and just_ blazed _his way down._

 _Angus Young and Brian Johnson were ripping through all the unholy sounds of the monsters around him, and Dean didn’t think it could get any better than this._ I am so magicking myself up a set of identical Japanese triplets when this is all done. _“You hear that, Cas?” he bellowed. “I’m comin’ for you and we’re blowing this popsicle stand!”_

 _There was nothing, just all the horrible noises of the hungry monsters around him, and for a moment his music seemed to dampen and the boiling darkness drew closer, but then Dean just gritted his teeth and roared, “_ Cas! _” and the music swelled and he listened—_

 _(it knows it knows_ no _)_

_“…Dean?”_

_—and he had no heartbeat but he felt his heart leap into his throat anyway, and he yelled again._

_“Cas!”_

_“Dean?!”_

_There, ahead of him or below him or wherever the fuck it was, where the monsters were thickest, he saw a flicker of something, some faint light he could see with his not-eyes between the seething mass of monster souls._

_“I’m comin’, Cas!” he yelled again, only he was slowing down because they were grabbing him, clawing at him, shit,_ no _, he didn’t have time for this, he had to save Sam, so he had to get to_ Cas _, but they were thicker here and closing in, and his music was faltering and he wasn’t flying anymore, yeah, well, fine, he didn’t need to fly, he’d_ claw _his way through these dickwads if he had to, because he was gonna_ fucking get to Cas _—_

_“Dean!”_

_And with one last mighty push, he broke through the mass, and—_

__—oh my holy God— __

 _It was_ huge _. That was all he could think as he stopped and stared, that it was fucking_ huge _, bigger than anything that ever walked the earth, bigger than his brain could understand, but what the fuck_ was _it, that giant thing covered in twisted souls that clung to it like parasites, all its broken arms and legs outstretched like it was chained up, except was it chained like that or was it_ holding on _, and Dean was_ glad _he didn’t have eyes, because they would have fucking_ melted in his head _trying to just see that thing, ‘cause it made the Cloverfield monster look like a goddamn_ kitten _, just as he was glad it was crawling with all those filthy souls because they covered it and he couldn’t see it all, but even what he could see was too much for him to take, that thing with all its eyes and mouths and arms and shit he didn’t even have a name for, and those skeletal wings rising up behind it, so fucking_ huge _that they blotted out anything behind it, but they were so tattered and bloody and barely anything but bones with a few strips of flesh and ragged feathers—_

_—wings—_

_—oh dear_ Jesus _is that that_ thing _is—_

 _No, it couldn’t be, no, he couldn’t_ take _it,_ no _, that thing was more huge and terrifying than any monster he’d been fighting off and—_

 _—only he_ wasn’t _fighting them off, and he yelled in surprise and pain when he felt the bite of teeth, and like it was a signal they suddenly_ swarmed _him, their shrieks and snarls filled with triumph, and where was his_ gun _, he didn’t have a_ gun _, and they were all over him, biting, tearing, and it hurt, and he_ screamed _—_

_And that huge and terrible thing raised its bowed head and it looked at Dean with all its eyes—_

_“Dean?”_

_And Dean_ remembered _._

It was terror and chaos, and they were coming, Dean didn’t know what they were but they were coming, and he was afraid, and they were running, all the demons were running before the huge and terrible things that were all around them, even Father Alistair had run and left him and Dean cowered under the rack, his knife dropping from his nerveless fingers as he hid his face and begged for them not to find him, _prayed_ for them not to find him, only what was he praying _to_ —

_Dean._

The voice was huge and reverberant and he felt it as much as he heard it, but he couldn’t see, couldn’t even scream as he was suddenly surrounded by light, scooped from where he was hiding and he was surrounded by it, and it was _burning_ him, it was _agony_ , worse than anything he’d ever felt in Hell—

—and then he suddenly knew such lightness, such _peace_ , as his blackened outer shell was sloughed off like a shed skin, and there was no pain, no shame, no terror, and he looked up not with fear but with _wonder_ at the enormous spreading wings above him, the many mouths opened in song, and he was being cupped by something huge that might’ve been hands and was being raised up and _out_ —

_“CAS!”_

_And the things clawing at him flew backwards,_ exploded _backwards with pained and angry howls and Dean was fighting towards it, towards_ him _, towards_ Cas _, because it_ was _Cas, and it didn’t matter that it was a worse monster than all the other ones because it was still_ Cas _._

_“Dean?” it said again, its voice a ragged whisper that was so loud it shook the air around them._

_“Cas—it’s me—I’m here—”_

_It was staring at him, or trying to, but some of its eyes weren’t working, just blind and milky, or some were just empty gaping sockets crusted with some nameless stuff that Dean didn’t want to think about._

_He was getting closer, so close that he couldn’t see anything but_ it _, his not-eyes filled with the guttering light that poured off it, and he could see that the clinging souls weren’t just hanging on, they were_ eating _, gnawing and slurping like black leeches, leaving trails of slime in their wake wherever they crawled and slithered across it, and they were all_ over _it, eating everything, even somehow sucking up the light it gave off so that there was nothing but deadened darkness around it._

_He was right up next to it now, right up by its face, and it was so big that it could have swallowed Dean whole and not even noticed. “Dean,” it whispered again from one of its oozing and toothless mouths, but then it moved, and it was like watching a mountain roll over its sleep. It shifted, and Dean could see it grip its chains tighter and pull, pull them in, pull them taut, and it let out a moan of agony that made this whole nightmare place shake like an earthquake, and then it went limp again, and then looked up, and now Dean could see that the eyes that were still good were leaking golden tears._

_“Dean…no, you…” A long tongue snaked out of one mouth to lick whatever passed for lips; Dean didn’t look at it because he was pretty sure that it was covered in suckers and just thinking about it threatened to make him go bugfuck insane. “I_ tried _, Dean,” it sobbed, and those wet gold trails dripped over its massive face only to be eagerly licked up by the gibbering black things that slithered over it. “I tried…to keep you safe…but you…I_ failed _…they_ killed _you…”_

_He had no body, but Dean still felt his throat close up all the same. “I know you tried, Cas,” he said, his not-voice thick, “but it’s okay. You did your best, and now it’s time for us to get out of here.”_

_“…Out?”_

_Dean tried to look it in the eye, made himself look in those rolling, staring eyes and not just completely lose his shit doing it, but they kept_ moving _, goddammit, all over its face, and there were_ so many _, there were too fucking many, and Dean had to close his own not-eyes and take a deep breath and imagine not this huge fucking thing but Cas, just_ Cas _, like he always knew him, and when he opened them again, two eyes were looking back—two normal, familiar blue eyes, and Dean blinked because there, deep in the heart of the light of that huge thing he could see a human body, no wings, just two arms and two legs and one mouth and it was Cas, and_ Jesus _, he was falling apart, torn and bleeding, a patch of bone showing through on the side of his head, one arm barely attached by just bone and a few strips of sinew, his legs broken and twisted and hanging uselessly, a huge gaping hole in his stomach visible through his tattered shirt, loops of intestine dangling out over his legs, but it was_ Cas _._

 _“Yeah, Cas,” he said, his not-eyes stinging with tears as he viciously swung at any creature that tried to pull him away from Cas. “It’s time to go—it’s time for you_ let _go.”_

 _“Let go?” Dean could hear that huge voice speaking all around him, but he didn’t care about that, because he also heard Cas’s voice, the voice he knew, and he sounded hopeless but he sounded_ confused _, like old Cas so often did, and Dean’s insides clenched._

 _Dean moved closer, just on the edge of the feeble light that overlaid the shape of his friend but far enough away so that he wasn’t touching it. “Let_ go _, Cas,” he said again, and he looked to where Cas was clinging desperately to the rusted chains in his hands. “You have to let go.”_

 _(no it will never let go we will not let it it will keep us_ here _)_

 _Cas stared, and then his eyes widened. “No—Dean—I_ can’t _let go,” he said, his voice panicked, and his bloodied and broken fingers tightened their grip. “If I let go, they’ll get away—”_

_(no escape no escape for you)_

_“You have to, Cas,” Dean cut through him, through_ them _, and even though he thought there was no way anyone could hear anything over the reverberant voice that spoke with Cas and drowned out anything else, he could, and Cas could too. “You can’t keep holding on, Cas—you have to let them go.”_

_Cas was shaking his head violently. “No—I have to—I have to keep them—to set things right—to fix things—” He looked up, his eyes filled with despair. “I have to—to keep them so I…so I can bring you back.”_

_(leave him dead for us he is for_ us _)_

 _“_ No _, Cas!” Dean bit out, and he heard it every bit as loud as Cas’s other voice was in this place, even drowning out all the other bubbling voices that said he couldn’t let go, and Dean reached out and ripped away one of the freaks crawling on the thing that really was Cas, giving him a clearer view of the Cas that Dean knew, and he flung it into the blackness and he heard it shriek as the others immediately set upon it. “I’m done—we_ both _are—these things, they’re killing you, and if that happens_ everybody _dies.” He stared Cas straight in the eye, in the familiar human ones that he knew and the impossibly huge one with too many pupils that he could see behind them. “The only way to fix things is it let them_ go _.”_

 _For an instant, Dean thought he saw Cas’s grip slacken, but then the monsters crawling all over him—the other him—suddenly seemed to move wildly across him,_ swarming _him, and they sank their teeth and claws in deeper and Cas was frantically grabbing at the chains with his bloodied fingers, saying, “No—Dean—no—I have to—”_

 _“Cas—you have to_ let go _!” Dean shouted, and he reached out to grab his shoulder, punching past the twisted souls that rushed in to try and stop him, and his not-hand plunged into that huge and burning light—_

_—OH DEAR GOD—_

_PAIN, red-hot roaring PAIN, but it was huge, too huge, too much, there was nothing there but the pain, and he_ screamed _, just screamed and screamed from_ all _his mouths, and he flailed his arms and his_ wings _but it was all_ too much _, looking out with all his eyes at all the souls of Purgatory eating him_ alive _—_

 _—no, not_ him _, not_ me _—_

_—what—_

_—and then another kind of pain, this one fast on the heels of the first, not his body because he didn’t have one but his brain, his mind, he was swelling to bursting, he was going to explode as_ fifteen billion years _of memory poured into him, and he/they saw it_ all _, saw_ everything _,_ knew _everything, but what did it matter when there was nothing but crushing loneliness because there was_ nothing _else, just rows of mindless soldiers watching what they didn’t understand and waiting for the end that never came and for a Father that never answered and it was endless and all the same and so empty and why was this all what for_ why am I here _—_

_—for DEAN!!!_

_Because there was DEAN, he/they knew now that everything before was just waiting for DEAN because he/they taught him how to live and to learn and to love and he/they loved DEAN—_

_—and he/they_ killed _Dean, what had he/they_ done _destroyed the one thing that mattered the most so sorry God so_ sorry _how dare he/they think he/they could do this he/they were_ nothing _he/they had_ failed _nothing but a_ monster _he/they_ deserved _this torment—_

_—no—Cas!_

_—what—_

_—DEAN?!!_

_—and he/they were screaming again, because there was DEAN, only now_ everything _was DEAN, he/they could feel him and feel everything and he knew he knew Dean did this for_ him _he died for_ him _because he_ loved him _it didn’t matter Dean_ loved him _and he/they were_ dying _because in all those fifteen billion years he/they had never known never felt_ so much _had he/they ever felt_ anything _before now no no an_ angel _not a_ human _too weak couldn’t take it no can’t feel not like this like this it_ hurt _it huuuurrrrrtttttt—Dean—!!!_

 _“_ I’m _Dean!” he screamed with his_ own _mouth, and he seized Cas’s shoulders and the pain intensified a million-fold but he was_ Dean _he knew he was_ Dean _not_ Cas _and he roared, “_ LET GO!!! _”_

_(NO)_

_And Cas did._

_For one endless moment all was still, Dean/Cas hanging suspended in the blackness, before a splitting scream shattered the space, the millions of howling voices of all the souls as they surged forward, grasping and clawing and trying to hold on but then they were ripped away, shrieking, tearing at Dean/Cas as they went, and they were screaming, they_ both _were screaming, in fear and terror and agony but they didn’t let go, Dean didn’t let go, his arms tight around Cas against the hurricane that whipped around him and for a moment he thought he felt himself cupped by something huge that might’ve been hands, but they dwindled down and then they were just Cas’s arms holding tight to him and the rushing, howling wind was picking up, and they were picking up with it, flying upwards and Dean looked up and could see a light—_

 _“Hang on, Cas!” he bellowed, and he gripped him tight and raised him up and_ out _—_

And the world exploded into light.

* * *

There was something poking him in the back.

It wasn’t painful—not too painful, anyway—it was just annoying. Uncomfortable. Really, he’d be pretty fine with things if it weren’t for whatever that was.

He became aware of a light breeze. With it came an odd scent—smoke. And something else. Ozone? Maybe.

Dean really wanted whatever that was to stop digging into his lower back. He wanted to move—but he couldn’t. Everything was so heavy, and he was just so _tired_ …but he was slowly starting to wake up. He’d move then.

He wasn’t dead. For some vague reason that tickled the back of his brain but danced just out of reach, he felt he should be surprised by that. It obviously had some significance, given that he just noted it. Should he be dead? He couldn’t think of anything that warranted that. But he definitely wasn’t—he’d been dead before, and it didn’t feel like this. For one, he never had that fucking annoying thing poking him in the back. Hell felt like _hell_ and Heaven didn’t feel like anything. Neither had rocks poking him in the back.

Rocks?

His fingers finally twitched, and he felt dirt under them. Well, yes. That could only be a rock, if he was sitting in a bunch of dirt. And it felt like he could finally move, even if he still couldn’t hear much—everything was just…muted.

He needed to move. He needed to get up and figure out what…something had happened. He knew something had happened. He didn’t know what, but he just _knew_ that, whatever it was, it was big, and if he could just get his eyes open and his limbs working, he could sit up and figure it all out.

Slowly, he cracked his eyes open. The night sky was sprawled above him, the stars clear and bright, only sometimes they would get obscured by puffs of…was that smoke? Huh—explained the smell. So, now he knew he was on the ground, he was outside, it was the middle of the night, and there was a fire. Yeah, that did so much to explain what the fuck was going on. Closing his eyes again, he struggled to move—

Oh, _fuck_ , that hurt.

He couldn’t help but moan, and that hurt, too, his throat raw and ragged—Jesus fucking _Christ_ , _everything_ hurt. He hurt all the way down to his friggin’ _bones_ , just this deep _ache_ that felt like a bunch of midgets with clubs had beaten him for a few hours. And it was a _familiar_ ache, somehow he just _remembered_ this, when the hell else would he—

Oh. No, he didn’t feel like he was dead—but he’d felt like this when he’d crawled out of his grave for the first time.

Okay, what the fuck was going on that he had just been brought back to life _again_. Why had he been brought back at _all_? Why had he died in the first place? And what was that _noise_? Someone kept saying something from far away, but all he wanted to do was somehow get to his knees and stand _up_ , but all he managed to do was roll over and force himself up on all fours instead—why couldn’t he _remember_ , it was all there, he could feel it, but he just couldn’t fucking _remember_ —

Was someone saying his name? Where the hell _was_ he?! He opened his eyes again and there was dirt, lots of dirt and something else— _ash_ , it was _ash_ —

“ _Dean!_ ”

Was—that was—that was _Sam_ —

_SAM!_

And he remembered.

“ _Sam!_ ” His voice was hoarse but he managed to at least _say_ it, and he could hear thundering footsteps and then there he was, _Sam_ , it was _Sammy_ , and his bone-crushing hug _hurt_ but he didn’t care and Dean grabbed him back because he was _alive_ —they were _both_ alive—but he _remembered_ , how the fuck was _he_ alive, he was supposed to be dead—did that mean he’d done it?!—but who cared, _Sam_ was _alive_ , oh God, and he could hear Sam saying, “You’re alive, you did it and you’re alive!” and Bobby was suddenly there and that hurt too when he grabbed Dean but he hugged back anyway and they—

_Cas—_

He suddenly couldn’t _breathe_ because his insides knotted up so fiercely because he couldn’t remember it but somehow he _did_ and _Cas_ , where was _Cas_ , if Dean was alive that meant— _Cas_ , where—

He swung his head wildly, ready to search everywhere and not knowing _why_ , but he had to _know_ , he had to _find him_ —

There was a crater right next to him.

For a second, Dean blinked, unable to believe that he’d not been _aware_ of that thing until now—Jesus, it was _huge_. It was where the smoke was coming from, trailing up from the ground itself, and everything was black and burned and covered in ash and who knew what else. Was _that_ —how had he survived _that_ —

And then he saw Cas, facedown and unmoving, right in the middle at the bottom.

_No._

No, that—no, he’d survived, why had—why was he alive and Cas—

_No._

His heart clenched so tightly it hurt, _something_ inside of him swelling up and threatening to choke him and making him almost dizzy—Cas was— _no_ —

_No!_

Dean was shaking but hardly cared, because he couldn’t understand why everything was so _intense_ , he’d fucking _known_ that Cas was gonna die, Death had _told him_ that—but Death had said they’d _both_ die, goddammit! Dean had died, but he was here now, Cas couldn’t—no, Cas couldn’t be dead, but why was he—why couldn’t he fucking _take_ this, _fuck_ , his head was about to _explode_ , he was about to _scream_ , because even now there was something he couldn’t _remember_ but somehow _did_ —

Cas’s arm moved.

Disbelief and joy and a bunch of other shit that Dean couldn’t identify hit him like a punch in the chest. “ _Cas?!_ ” he shouted, and it didn’t matter that he hurt, he was _alive_ , Cas was fucking _alive_ —he had to get to him now—had to get to _Cas_ —

He threw Sam and Bobby off of him, nearly tumbling headfirst into the crater, but he didn’t care how undignified that would’ve been because _Cas_ —and when he hit the side he was sliding down, the dirt scraping his palms and getting up his shirt and into his pants as he went, and when he hit the bottom he _did_ fall, flailing and landing hard on his side as he rolled, but then he scrambled up, forcing his horribly-aching limbs to fucking _move_ , and he didn’t know why he had to get to Cas but he just _did_. He barely heard Sam and Bobby behind him, because he’d reached him, and he collapsed next to him onto his knees and grabbed him, rolling him over—

For a second, all he saw was his bloody, filthy face, covered in muck and ash, and it was almost as if that black snot he’d been oozing had been burned into his flesh but Jesus Christ, was he alive, there was blood coming from _everywhere_ , but he _had to be_ , Dean saw him fucking move— _Cas, don’t you dare_ —

Cas’s eyes fluttered open, and Dean almost shouted in relief and happiness because it was _Cas_ , _their_ Cas, _his_ Cas, he could _see it_ , just those two clear, blue eyes, not filmed over black or dulled or muted, but they were _Cas_ , and _fuck_ , he almost looked _confused_ , and even that was great because that was just _Cas_ —

Cas’s mouth moved, and it almost looked like he was trying to say something—his cracked lips seemed to form a word— _Dean_ —

And his eyes filled up with tears and something else, just broken misery that Dean had never seen before because Cas was an angel and didn’t _feel_ like that and Dean almost felt it too and something deep in him remembered but he _didn’t_ remember ( _Dean Dean so sorry sorry sorry Dean sorry_ )—

Cas was drawing away, rolling back, his eyes squeezed shut as his mouth fell open in a silent cry, and—he _was_ crying, Jesus Christ, Cas was _crying_ , and just curling up around himself as if he was trying to hide from them. And Dean remembered everything he was crying _for_ , everything he’d _done_ , done to them, to Bobby, to _Sammy_ , to the entire fucking world, and some small part of him thought that yes, he _should_ be crying, and _should_ be saying sorry, but everything else just tightened and he felt his eyes stinging, and before he knew it, he’d just grabbed Cas and yanked him forward and his heart swelled when he had Cas right up against him and he didn’t know _why_.

But he didn’t care. For some insane reason, he didn’t fucking care. “Cas,” he managed, his voice rough. “Cas, it’s okay—you’re alive, we all are.”

Dean felt Sam and Bobby next to him, crowding in, but he hardly noticed them—he wanted to and was trying to, but he just… _why_ was his entire middle filled up with this _feeling_ , what _was it_ , and why was he trying to _remember_ something this whole time—

Then he realized he _couldn’t_ remember it—any of it. There was just _nothing_ ; all he remembered was the thing that wasn’t Cas, standing in front of him, raising his hand to kill him, and then there was simply _nothing_ , because he couldn’t fucking _remember_ it. Any of it. If he hadn’t had that bone-deep ache, he would have doubted Cas had even killed him in the first place. But he had, and obviously he’d done _something_ —God, how much time had passed between—

Cas didn’t _feel_ right, Dean suddenly realized. He was limp, but that had happened before, but he also felt soft, warm, and—he felt _human_ —shit, Cas was _human_ , Dean just _knew it_ , the way he was beat up and crying and didn’t seem to be able to get a hold of himself; angels didn’t _do_ that, Cas must have been completely burnt out, burnt out _again_ , had all the angel just ripped out of him by eating the souls or letting them go or by whatever had just happened. But Dean didn’t care—it didn’t matter _what_ Cas was, it just mattered _who_ he was—that he was _alive_ , and was just _himself_ again.

They needed to get out of here—or at least get out of this fucking hole. “Come on,” Dean said, his voice thick, and stood up, trying to get Cas to stand up with him, because goddammit, Dean was too wobbly to hold him up.

But Cas didn’t—not even when all three of them stood and picked him up. His legs just wouldn’t _work_ , and he still wasn’t making any noise at all, he was just silently sobbing, so all three of them had no choice but to do it for him, moving awkwardly up the side of the crater and dragging Cas with them.

Dean could feel him trying to grab at him, but Dean could tell he had no strength, no energy, no _nothing_ left. But between the three of them, they managed to get up to the top and get him back up on level ground. “Let’s get him to the car,” Dean managed. “We gotta get him—he’s hurt, we—”

“ _Dean…_ ”

Fuck, Cas sounded so _broken_ , so—

“Dean, I’m—I’m sorry…I’m _so sorry_ …”

Cas’s deadweight somehow became even deader, and they had to stop as he sagged in their grip and went down to the ground onto his knees, pulling his arms away from them and trying to shrink away from their touch.

“Sam…Bobby…you all, I—”

“It’s okay, Cas,” Sam suddenly said, his voice soft. “We’re fine, too—it’s okay.”

“ _No_ ,” Cas burst, trying to yank away but not having the energy to do it, just trying to curl up onto the ground again, hiding his face and just trying to _breathe_ , his entire form shaking with silent sobs. “No, I—I’m sorry, for— _everything_ I did, I—I felt—I _feel_ —you were my friends, my _brothers_ , and I—”

“It’s over,” Sam continued over him, his hand on his shoulder, his own voice getting suspiciously choked up. “You made a mistake, but you did what was right in the end and now it’s all over, Cas. It’s okay.” He was saying all the things Dean wanted to say but couldn’t as he stared down at Cas, trying to get his throat to work, trying to say _something_.

“I feel—I _loved_ all of you, I _felt_ —I felt that _you_ —you _cared_ —you loved _me_ and I—you _died_ for me—Dean, I’m _sorry, I’m so sorry_ —”

Dean finally moved, swinging around to the front and grabbing Cas’s wrists, pulling him up into a half-sitting position and yanking his hands away from his face because he wanted to see _Cas_ , and most of all he wanted Cas to see _him_. And when Cas was finally looking at him, he spoke before Cas could drop his gaze again.

“I know, Cas,” he forced out. “ _We_ know. And we forgive you.”

And somehow, he _did_ forgive him, for _everything_ , for betraying them and allying with Crowley, for chasing them across the nation for a year, for killing all those deluded saps who were following him, for getting _Bobby_ killed, for _breaking Sam’s head_ , he forgave him for _all of it_ and he _didn’t fucking know why_ , why did he forgive him, but he _did_ because somehow he just _knew_ , he _knew_ how much agony and regret and remorse Cas was feeling. He just somehow _knew_ , and he didn’t know why he knew, but he did, almost like he _felt it_ —

“Why? After everything I…” Cas’s ragged whisper brought Dean back down to reality, and hearing it suddenly made him not _care_ about whether or not he should forgive Cas.

“Because you’re _family_ ,” he said forcefully. “And that’s what family _does_ —they love each other and forgive each other and stick by each other no matter what stupid shit they pull, and that’s how I—that’s how _all of us_ feel about _you_.”

Cas’s eyes were huge and wide, and the tears were leaving wet, muddy tracks in their wake as they smeared through the mud and ash and blood on his face, and he still looked so _broken_ , but his _face_ , that _look_ , and all Dean could see were his fucking _eyes_ , and they went right through him and made that horribly wonderful feeling in him twist tighter and he just didn’t know what it _was_ , and when Cas leaned forward it pretty much exploded in him and then he _knew_ what it was, _yes_ , that’s what it was—it was _Cas_ , it was having _Cas_ back and he tasted blood and ash and sweat and mud but it didn’t matter because he tasted _Cas_ it was just _Cas_ who said he loved them and he loved him _back_ because he _felt it_ he felt _all of it_ and he just held him and—

—and kissed—

— _kissing_ —

_HOLY FUCKING HELL I’M KISSING CAS!!!_

He nearly threw Cas off of him and across the field, but instead he just yanked himself back as quickly as he could, his stomach twisting up and making him feel _sick_ even as the heat in his chest constricted around his heart and part of himself wanted to run screaming even as part of it wanted to stay, wanted Cas here and wanted him to remain right where he was, leaning forward and sobbing against his chest—

Dean stared, his mouth hanging open—his mouth that was smeared with blood because he’d—he’d—

He tore his eyes away, because he couldn’t look at him, and he glanced up—

Sam’s jaw was flapping open and Bobby’s eyebrows had crawled halfway up his forehead, but they just stared back in stunned, incredulous silence.

_Oh, FUCK._


	2. Show Me the Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of his showdown with Cas, Sam is there to talk Dean through his sudden and surprising display in the field.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a modified version of that first fic that Mrs. Hyde wrote that we mentioned in the first author’s note, originally a one-shot posted on my Live Journal in June of 2011, and the fic that spawned this entire massive AU.

* * *

Sam opened his eyes.

He stared up at the watermarked ceiling, in that state half-in and half-out of sleep, trying to figure out what was missing, what was wrong. It took him a moment to realize that what was missing was the feeling that something was wrong—because _nothing_ was wrong. There was no dread in his chest, no clenching fear in his gut, no mystery gnawing at his brain, no sense of urgency pushing him into action.

It was morning, and it was quiet, and he had nothing to worry about.

He tried to stretch and immediately regretted it; his usual phantom aches and pains upon waking were bad enough, but he’d spent the night cramped on the narrow sofa in the upstairs back bedroom, and his spine felt like it had frozen in a permanent S-curve on top of it all. At least in his extreme exhaustion from last night, he didn’t remember having any of the usual round of Post Lucifer Stress Disorder nightmares. Screwing up his face, he sat up, feeling the pops that rattled their ways down his spine as he straightened.

Yawning hugely, he scratched rather vaguely at his head before grimacing at the greasy feel of his hair; he needed a shower.

Sam leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and just sat for a moment, rubbing his eyes and listening to the stillness in the house. They were done. They were _all done_ , he told himself; they were all safe, and they were all alive— _everyone._ He could relax. He didn’t know if the thought made him feel astonishingly young or profoundly old.

With a sigh, he hove himself to his feet and rummaged in his knapsack for a shirt that looked passably clean. Finding one, he pulled it over his head as he shambled out into the hall and towards the bathroom.

After pissing what felt far more than his bladder could actually hold, he flushed the toilet and then twisted the tap on the sink, letting the burst of rust pass before leaning down to splash a cold handful of water over his face. He groped for the ratty old towel on the bar by the sink; drying his face, he caught sight of himself in the mirror and couldn’t help but pause. He was still himself, of course, but when he leaned forward, he thought he saw traces of tiny wrinkles lining the corners of his eyes.

Well, he would be thirty next year, after all. As if to reassure himself, he ran his hand through his hair as he dropped the towel back on the bar to dry; it was, thankfully, uniformly dark. Although if being personally tortured by the Devil himself wasn’t enough to make him go gray prematurely, he didn’t know what else could.

But when he moved out into the hallway and spotted the door to Dean’s room slightly ajar, he realized that yes, he did know.

He’d had only the slightest idea of what he was in for when he stood on the edge of that precipice in the graveyard, ready to throw himself back into Lucifer’s cage to set right what he’d done…but until last night, he’d had absolutely no idea of what _Dean_ had gone through, watching him make that jump.

Not until he had to watch the same.

This time, it had been Sam who had been forced to stand aside. He’d had to sit there, hiding on the edge of that field and watch his big brother march out to face something bigger and more powerful than anything that they had ever dealt with—to march to some fate worse than death and leave Sam behind to go on alone.

Only…he hadn’t. Dean had faced it—and he’d _won_.

Sam still didn’t know quite what had happened last night, and Dean wasn’t talking. All he’d seen was that blinding flash, the release of millions upon millions of foul, twisted souls, and for a moment had known what it must feel like to stand at Ground Zero, the needles of heat and light lancing every inch of his skin.

And then it was over, and when the spots behind his eyes had cleared, there had been a smoking crater on the ground in front of him…and there was Dean, sprawled on the rim, dazed and bewildered, but utterly unscathed.

Sam had run to him, a wild joy filling him up to the brim. He’d thrown himself on his knees next to him, seizing his brother in a bone-crushing hug, because he was here, he was _alive_ , and it was _done_. And then Bobby was grabbing them both, holding them tight, and when Sam pulled away Dean was actually starting to grin, because he was here and alive and Sam had never seen anything so wonderful…but it was gone an instant later.

Sam had followed his eyes, looked over his shoulder at the burnt and blackened pit behind him…and to the small, unmoving figure crumpled at the bottom.

Sudden, unexpected grief had hit him like a punch in the stomach. That—that _thing_ they’d been fighting wasn’t Cas, he knew that now. That had been some psycho on a drug trip, just a bigger, nastier version of all the same old shit-sucking supernatural monsters that preyed on innocent people. Cas was their brother, their friend, the one who had given everything for them, had _died_ for them, had stood by them in their darkest moments…and who was lying dead on the scorched dirt at their feet.

And who then moved.

“Cas?!” Dean’s shout had been rough with disbelief. Sam and Bobby had hurried to follow after him as he scrambled down into the smoking shell.

Cas had looked so small, collapsed on the ground, as if he was nothing but an empty husk, burnt out from inside by the inferno of souls that he’d swallowed. But when they’d rolled him over, and those bright eyes had opened in his smudged and bloodied face, Sam had known in an instant that it was _Cas_ , that he was back, that he was himself again.

He’d stared up at them, at their still-wary, questioning faces…and Sam couldn’t help the reflexive clench in his gut when he saw something in his eyes shatter, and then they filled with tears.

Cas had curled in on himself, into a huddled ball of misery, those horrible, silent tears pouring over his cheeks, so utterly broken. And what else could they do but flank him, draw him up into their embrace, and forgive him.

Sam peered through the open door, and there he was. Cas was sprawled out in the empty bed, tangled up in the sheets, his hair more rumpled than usual, his long bare limbs motionless as he slept. He still looked small, but his face was serene in a way that it never was when he was awake—not merely serene, but _peaceful_. A little angel, Dean had once said, and a tiny smirk curled Sam’s lip at the thought, but it fled quickly. That was all that would be angelic about him now. Those souls—or maybe something else, he didn’t know—really _had_ burned him out. Now he was nothing but a man—or as close as he could be, anyway.

It would take some getting used to again, Sam supposed, but a de-powered Cas certainly wasn’t the weirdest thing he’d dealt with in his time.

But the fact that it was _Dean’s_ bed that Cas was currently lying in was definitely a contender for the title.

The three of them had dragged Cas up out of the crater left by the release of the souls; he’d been unable to walk, either too weak or too grief-stricken to do so under his own power. He’d been limp in their arms, but felt somehow weightless, as if a strong wind would just pick him up and blow him away; no wonder he’d clung to them as they manhandled him up, his pale hands fluttering around their shoulders like the broken wings of a bird. He didn’t make a sound, not even with those tears streaming down his face, until they’d finally gotten him up away from the blast radius. Only then, hiding his face in his hands, had he said he was sorry, so _sorry_ , and they said they knew, it was okay, everything was okay now, but he just kept saying he was sorry, so very sorry, because he loved them so much.

Dean, who hadn’t seem to be able to speak until then, had peeled Cas’s hands away from his face, leaned in low to look him in the eye and told him that they forgave him. When Cas just asked in disbelief _why_ , Dean had looked away and then roughly told them that, well, they loved him too, and that’s what you do for the people you care about, and that was that.

Their faces so close and their expressions so intense, Sam supposed he shouldn’t have been quite so surprised when Cas closed the distance and messily kissed Dean, but he was. And he wasn’t sure what surprised him more: that, or the fact that for a moment, Dean had kissed _back_.

Afterwards, Sam was pretty sure Dean didn’t know which shocked _him_ more, either.

Unable to help himself, Sam leaned forward to peer further into the room, but aside from Cas, it was empty. Quietly, so as not to wake him, he slipped by, tiptoeing past the closed door to Bobby’s bedroom, and made his way down the stairs.

They hadn’t said much else last night; just hauled Cas into the car and drove home in silence. They’d bundled his unresisting form inside, and Dean, not meeting their eyes, had taken him upstairs, said he’d clean him up. Sam and Bobby had looked at their retreating backs, then at each other, and then just went their separate ways in the house.

The last few steps creaking under his feet, Sam padded his way into downstairs hall and toward the kitchen and stopped short.

Dean was sitting at the kitchen table, and there was a three-quarters-empty bottle of whiskey sitting next to him. His shoulders were hunched; Sam watched him tip back the glass in his hand and then fill it back up again. He didn’t react to Sam’s presence behind him. Really, he didn’t even seem to notice he was there, which told him just how preoccupied his brother was.

“Bit early, isn’t it?” Sam asked, pointing at the whiskey bottle as he rounded the table. Dean nearly leapt out of his seat at the sound of his voice, looking up at him with that typical mixture of shock and outrage that everyone got when someone snuck up on them. However, it was gone just as quickly, and Dean looked away from him. Sam saw the back of his neck flushing darkly.

He didn’t say anything, but Sam knew he couldn’t hold his silence for long. Dean never could. Sam just plonked down opposite him at the table, staring out the window at the gray sky for a moment, and then gave Dean the opening that Sam knew he wanted. “So—how is he?” he asked.

Dean’s gaze flashed up at him, quick and wary, and then went back down to the tabletop. “He’s—uh, he’s fine. Ish. I guess,” he grunted. His voice was rough, and Sam could smell his breath even across the table; he’d been at the bottle for a while already.

“This going to be permanent?” Dean tensed and looked up at him sharply, not relaxing when Sam quickly continued his question, “This de-powered thing? He’s just gonna be one of us for good now?”

“How the hell should I know?” Dean shot back.

Sam shrugged his shoulders. “You were the one who talked to Death and then faced Cas down, not me—I just thought you might know something we didn’t,” he said placatingly.

“Yeah, well, I don’t!” Dean bit out. “And quit _staring_ at me!” he abruptly snarled.

“…I’m not?” Sam said after a moment.

“Well, then don’t just sit there— _say_ something, dammit!” Dean flew out to his feet, his chair scraping loudly behind him as he thrust it away and turned to stare out the window, his shoulders taut and brooding.

Sam shifted in his seat. “What do you want me to say, Dean?” he finally asked.

“I want to you quit pretending like—like you—like you didn’t see that, last night,” Dean finally said.

Sam’s mouth twisted. “I’m not pretending anything. I saw,” he said.

“And?” Dean demanded, still not looking at him.

Sam pursed his lips. “And—nothing,” he said with a shrug.

“ _No!_ ” Dean roared, spinning around. “It’s not _nothing_ , it’s—I’m—son of a _bitch_!” He whirled back around to stare out the window.

Sam sat, quiet; there were times when he had to extract information out of Dean like a dentist pulling wisdom teeth, but there were other times that he just had to let him get it out on his own—he’d eventually manage to say what he needed to.

When he still didn’t speak, Sam again offered him an opening. “Dean—I really don’t see what the problem is—”

And that was all he needed. “Really?” Dean asked furiously, spinning on his heel to glare down at him. “You don’t see the problem? Oh, well, I do—I like _pussy_ , goddammit!”

Sam bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing in Dean’s face—that was the last thing he needed. Dean was breathing heavily, and looked about ready to start swinging, so Sam sat still until he could speak. “Okay,” he said in measured tones. “That’s fine—that’s great. You like pussy.” He looked him in the eye. “…And you like Cas.”

There. It was out. Dean seemed to sag where he stood. He rubbed a hand across his face, looking out the window for a moment, and then turned back to Sam. “And—what? That’s it? That’s all you have to say?” he finally asked.

Sam looked off, praying for patience. “Dean, I don’t know what you want me to say,” he finally said. “You want me to try to talk you out of it? To give you some Chick Tracts? Or—or light some candles so we can pray to the Mother Goddess?” Dean gave him an incredulous stare, and Sam spread his arms in a helpless gesture. “It sounds like you’re the one having trouble, Dean,” he told him. “I’m fine with it. Really.”

“How in the hell are you just ‘fine with it,’ Sammy?” Dean demanded.

Sam rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Dean, did you forget that I went to college in Stanford? In San Francisco, California? America’s Bowl of Granola—the Pride Lands?” A chuff of laughter escaped him. “Dude, half the population of that place was so flamingly gay that they made _Liberace_ look subtle.”

Dean had twitched a little at Sam’s words, but he just went on. “After living there for four years, believe me, I’m not going to be bothered by what you do on your own time with one guy. Who,” he added, talking over Dean, who had looked like he was struggling to speak, “if you think about it, since he was an angel, may not technically be a ‘guy’ anyway.”

“The hell he’s _not_ ,” Dean blurted, and immediately the blood slammed into his face.

Sam squinted his eyes shut. “Okay,” he finally got out, holding up one finger, “see, now _that_ was too much information, Dean.” Dean had slumped down in his chair and wouldn’t look at him. Sam just shook his head and looked at the scattering of used glasses on the table until he found one that was clean enough not to have anything growing in it and then poured himself a finger of Dean’s whiskey. “Seriously, though—whatever you want to do is your business,” he said, raising his glass to his brother’s still somewhat disbelieving expression. “Just so long as you _keep_ it your business,” he informed him with a wry grin. “For a change.”

Dean furrowed his brows at him. “And what is that supposed to mean?” he asked, glaring.

Sam gave him incredulous look. “Uh, maybe that you’re an exhibitionist along with being a voyeur?” he challenged. “And don’t try and deny it,” he said firmly over Dean’s attempt to protest. “I’ve seen more of you than I have ever wanted to, and in positions that give me worse nightmares than Lucifer ever managed.” He snorted into his glass. “Sometimes, I think I’ve seen more of your sex life than my own.”

“That’s bullshit,” Dean retorted. “Name one time you’ve seen me.”

Sam gave a bark of laughter. “ _One?_ Is that all?” he taunted. “How about your little sex-romp with the two lookalikes outside of St. Louis?”

Dean scoffed. “I had a year to live, man—I owed that to myself,” he said loftily. “Besides, you knew what I was doing in there, and _you_ walked in anyway.”

“Okay, well, then how about that time in Clancy, Montana?” Sam fired back. “I was fourteen, and we’d talked Dad into letting us get our own motel room so we could stay up and watch movies. I went out to hit the vending machines and when I came back, you were in bed with the owner’s daughter. I ended up crashing on the floor of Dad’s room.”

Dean’s chin jutted out. “That wasn’t my fault. I was eighteen years old, and she jumped _me_ , not the other way around, and you think I would just—”

Sam was on a roll. “Oh, and let’s not forget that time we were enrolled in school in Lebanon, Kentucky. You slept with Jennifer Morris, the Homecoming Queen—”

“Hell yeah, I did,” Dean said with a laugh, and then abruptly looked disconcerted. “Wait a minute—how did you know about that?”

Sam smirked. “Because her little brother had a peephole into her room through the back stairwell and took pictures and sold them all over the middle school for five bucks.”

“ _What?!_ ”

“And I cannot count the number of times,” he said loudly over Dean’s outrage, “that we’ve been in a bar somewhere, you’ve disappeared with some girl, and when I go outside looking for you, I’m treated to the sight of your pasty white ass waving in the rear window of the Impala.”

Dean’s face got that pinched, pissy look that he always did when he had no response. Sam couldn’t resist one last needle. “Why do you think I never want to sit back there?”

The glower Dean was giving him would have peeled paint; Sam just snorted. There was a brief silence, which Sam broke. “Dean,” he said, leaning forward over the table. “We’ve seen what the end of the world is like—and this isn’t it.”

Dean went tense again, flushing and looking at the tabletop, but when he looked up, it was with a strange sort of dazed confusion. “Then…that’s it?” he asked, his voice quiet.

Sam shrugged. “Don’t see why not. It’s…kinda weird, maybe,” he admitted, and felt something like relief to see Dean’s eye-rolling agreement, “but it’s not gonna sent me screaming into the night or anything.” He met and held his eyes. “You’re still my brother.”

They were still for a moment in their silent communion, until Dean went back to tracing the wood grain of the top of the desk with his eyes. Sam blew a breath out through his nose, regarded Dean for a moment, and then lightly said, “Besides, not to, ah, belittle your accomplishment, or anything, but I think I’ve got you beat.” When Dean looked up, Sam leaned conspiratorially across the table. “I still say I’ve shacked up with much, _much_ worse than you ever have.”

Dean gave a rough chuckle and then polished off the last of his drink. He stared out the window for a moment, and then he said, his voice a little hoarse, “Thanks, Sammy.”

Sam smiled. “No problem,” he said, and Dean smiled almost shyly back.

There was a creak of the floorboards, and they looked up to find Bobby standing there at the entrance to the kitchen. He eyed Dean. “You two finally get yourselves sorted out?” he asked dryly.

Dean turned red again and looked off. Sam chuckled. “Hey, Bobby,” he said. He poked around on the table at the small forest of old glasses. “You wanna join us for a little morning Wild Turkey?” he asked. “Breakfast of champions.”

“Way ahead of you, boy,” Bobby said, plopping down in the chair next to Dean. “Was workin’ down in the basement.”

“Oh—I thought you were still asleep.”

He gave a rude snort. “Are you kidding? My room shares a wall with his—ain’t nobody sleeping on that side of the house last night, not with all that screamin’ goin’ on. Surprised the whole damn town of Sioux Falls didn’t hear him.”

“Yeah, I hear you—I didn’t get nearly as much sleep as I wanted to because of ‘em,” Sam replied matter-of-factly.

Dean’s face was the color of old bricks; Sam just smirked at him, but when the movement in the doorway caught his eye, he did a bit of a double take. “Oh—hey, Cas,” he said lightly.

Dean tensed, and they all looked over. Castiel was lurking in the doorway, dressed in his usual getup, his head held low and his expression unsure. “Hello,” he said after a moment.

“Come have a seat?” Sam offered, keeping his voice neutral.

Cas hesitated, and then slowly crossed the floor, paused again, but then slid into the seat next to him, opposite Bobby. He kept his eyes down, only daring to look up once, and when he caught Bobby’s gaze, looked quickly away again.

“You okay, kid?” Bobby asked him after a moment.

Cas looked up slowly, his expression one of uncertainty tinged with disbelief. “I—” he started, and his eyes flicked toward Dean once. He licked his lips, and then finished, “I am…getting by.”

Sam gave him a half-smile. “Hey—that’s about the best any of us can hope for,” he told him. Cas looked at him for a moment, his face filled with a painful, grateful sort of wonder, and then nodded.

The four of them around the table were quiet; Sam finished his whiskey and looked over to Cas; whatever he had been thinking of saying died on his tongue.

Cas was looking at Dean. Not just looking, but _looking_ , that way he always did—the way he always _had_ , Sam realized—even though he wasn’t an angel anymore. His eyes were focused, unblinking and intense, as if drawn towards Dean by an irresistible force.

Sam flicked his eyes to Bobby and raised his eyebrows; he just rolled his eyes back. _Guess all those times demons and angels joked about him being in love with Dean, they really weren’t kidding_ , Sam thought. He looked at Cas a moment more and then over to Dean. He was mostly just staring down at the tabletop, but every so often, he’d look up and meet Cas’s eyes, and…well. Clearly this _was_ “going to be permanent.”

Yeah, sure, it was weird, Sam supposed, and it would definitely take some getting used to. But Dean was his brother, and, well, that’s what you do for people you cared about.

And that was that.


	3. Communication Breakdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean drags Cas home, furious and blaming him for what happened in the field, only to find that that wasn’t the case at all.

The plan had been simple.

Keep his head down, don’t talk to anyone, avoid all eye contact. Get home, get him upstairs, shove him into the bathroom, tell him to clean up. All that would leave plenty of time for him to gather his thoughts and get his bearings back. Plenty of time to figure out just what the hell to ask him first without completely losing it.

Naturally, Cas would find a way to screw up something that uncomplicated, and manage it all just by falling over.

To be fair, Dean had managed to stick to the plan up to a point. Nobody had spoken to him or asked any questions, and he’d refused to look anyone in the eye. Bobby had been the one driving—it had felt strange, riding in the backseat of his own car, Cas slumped over and bleeding all over his jacket. But really, it turned out to have some advantages. Sam and Bobby were up in the front, so Dean didn’t have to worry about looking at them—or about them looking at _him_. Worrying about what they were thinking up there in their studied silence, however…well, that just came with the territory.

Once they’d gotten home, Dean had finally spoken, and it had been trouble-free—he’d roughly informed Sam and Bobby that Cas needed to be cleaned up and stitched up and that he’d be the one to take care of it. He’d not looked at them when he said it, but he could feel their eyes on him as he’d all but carried Cas into the house and up the stairs, and it had made his gut twist horribly. He’d had to swallow his natural inclination to whirl around and tell them in no uncertain terms what he thought of the _looks_ they were giving him, not to mention just what they could _do_ with them, but that wasn’t part of the plan. No—no talking. Not until he finally had a chance to sit down _alone_ and just _think_.

Pretty much everything had gone just how he’d wanted it, right up until he’d dragged Cas into the bathroom.

He’d asked _twice_ if Cas could stand up on his own and get undressed and cleaned up, and both times Cas had—well, he hadn’t exactly said _yes_ , but he had nodded, dammit. And so Dean had let him go, wanting to stop _touching_ him because _touching_ him didn’t _feel_ right—it didn’t feel right _at all_ —and just as he’d started to turn to go and wait in the bedroom down the hall, he’d seen Cas teetering dangerously and had barely managed to catch him in time to keep him from bashing his skull open on the edge of the sink.

Gritting his teeth, he steered him over to the toilet, kicking the lid down and letting him collapse heavily onto it before straightening again—and then having to rush and lean right back down, his hands gripping Cas’s shoulders as he started to list, this time threatening to fall into the empty bathtub.

Dean sucked in a few breaths, closing his eyes and counting to three, and finally spoke to Cas again for the first time since—since before.

“You can’t clean up by yourself, can you,” he said flatly, not a question.

Cas didn’t move this time, just stared at Dean’s feet, but it was enough. Cas could barely sit up on his own, much less stand up to take a shower. Dean briefly contemplated just running a bath and throwing him in the tub, clothes and all, but realized that the great big load would probably just pass out and drown.

_Now what?_

He stared at Cas. He was covered in dirt and ash and sweat and blood. Dean didn’t know where most of that blood was coming from, except for the crusted, half-dried trails running down his face and neck from his nose and ears and mouth. He needed to be patched up, and for that, he needed to be cleaned off.

And since he couldn’t do it himself…

 _Son of a_ bitch _._

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he muttered, mostly to himself, dropping one of his hands and straightening up.

Dean was no stranger to bathing people—he’d been in charge of keeping Sam mostly clean when he was a kid, and of course had bathed him regularly when he was just a baby. Not only that, but he was a hunter, and that was just one of the parts of the job—he’d helped clean up both his dad and his brother after a bad fight when they’d needed it, and they’d returned the favor when it was his turn to get torn up by something nasty that left him half-dead. And, naturally, he’d bathed quite a few _women_ in his time, under _very_ different circumstances. But this…

He ran his hand over his face, glaring pointlessly at the sagging whatever-he-was-now sitting in front of him, and he so did not want to do this, especially not now. Not after _that_. Not after—after _everything_.

But there was nothing else to be done.

Dean suddenly felt stupid—he’d walked right up to Cas and spat in his eye when he had the power to turn him into a friggin’ grease spot not four hours ago, but he couldn’t just…get him undressed and shove him in a tub full of water? _Fuck that_ , he thought viciously to himself. Keeping one hand on Cas to make sure he didn’t fall over again, he leaned down and twisted the taps, waiting for the slightly rusty water to run clear and start steaming before shoving the plug into the drain. Dean steeled himself, turned back to Cas, and then reached forward and started with the overcoat.

“Don’t just lay there like a goddamn slug,” Dean grunted. “Come on—get undressed.”

Cas finally looked up at him then, staring dully as Dean pushed his overcoat and jacket off of his shoulders at the same time. When he didn’t move, Dean met his eyes and gave him a little shake. “Come _on_ , Cas. Just because you can’t stand up doesn’t mean you can’t take your clothes off. I’m not gonna friggin’ baby you!”

Cas only stared at him for a moment more before his he _finally_ moved, helping Dean get his arms out of the coat and jacket before he feebly reached up and started tugging at his tie.

Peeling him out of his clothes was not fun—and it was _slow_. Dean had only managed to get him out of his shirt when he had to pause and shut the water off so that the tub didn’t overflow. The problem wasn’t just that Cas was completely useless right now—it was also that the blood oozing from the vast array of cuts all over him had dried, and so Cas’s shirt stuck to him like a stubborn band-aid; removing it just tore all his wounds open again. But he’d eventually gotten Cas out of it and tossed it on top of his coat and jacket, and now had dropped to his knees and jerked at Cas’s shoelaces.

He’d helped Cas get out of everything above the waist, but he’d be damned if he was gonna strip him out of his pants, too. Instead, he simply stood back up again before reaching forward and tugging on his bare and bruised arms. “Get up,” he ordered. “Take off the rest of it—I’ll help you stand.”

He came up easily enough, shuffling around his shoes and socks, and Dean just stood beside him, feeling horribly awkward with one arm around his skinny waist and his fingers on his flat stomach as Cas fumbled at his belt and buttons. He pointedly avoided watching, mostly just wondering what the hell was taking him so long. He listened to the whisper of clothes beside him, staring at the still water in the bathtub and the bar of soap on top of the washcloth on the edge, and then glanced over when he felt Cas stop moving.

Well, that was a mistake. Dean was already very aware that he had a naked dude hanging all over him, but actually _seeing_ it was a bit more than he could take at the moment. Jerking his head away again, he pulled Cas with him, feeling him stumble out of the pants around his ankles, and  
shoved him to the edge of the tub even as he sagged and leaned against him, his arms coming up to try and cling and Dean felt his chest tighten a little—

“Get in,” Dean barked, wanting nothing more than to get Cas’s scrawny naked body _off_ of his own.

Easier said than done. Cas didn’t seem to _want_ to get in, and it wasn’t until Dean had managed to wrangle him into sitting down that he realized that he’d probably made the water too hot, and it couldn’t feel all that pleasant on the who-knew-how-many gashes and bruises he had all over his body. But he was in, and he’d get used to it, and was probably for the best to avoid everything getting infected; he wasn’t an angel anymore, after all, so he couldn’t just pop himself back into perfection.

Dean glanced over at the soap and back at Cas before sighing. He only gave Cas a brief warning of, “Hold your breath.” Cas blinked up at him, but then his eyes widened as Dean reached forward and pushed against his shoulders, and then he started flailing and panicking when he just dunked him, shoving his head under the water, too.

“ _Shit!_ ” Dean yanked him back up as he splashed water all over the floor and down the front of his shirt and jeans. “What the hell, Cas?!” he yelled as Cas coughed and spluttered. “What are you, four?! Hold still!”

Cas’s choking subsided, and then he looked back up at Dean again. His hair was plastered flat against his head, fat droplets of water clinging to his eyelashes and dripping from his chin, and he just sat there, limp and motionless and wet. Dean pursed his lips and looked away, unable to even _deal_ with that pathetically waterlogged sight—in any capacity. Counting to three again, he finally turned back to Cas and grabbed the washcloth and soap.

Dean started at the top and began working his way down. Cas didn’t seem to have any serious head injuries beyond the assortment of cuts that of course bled more than they had a right to, so that was good—his hair was just full of mud and ash. He gave him a little more warning this time, mostly in the form of dire threats _not_ to start thrashing, and doused him again to rinse the soap out of his hair. Then he soaped the rag back up and started roughly scrubbing at his back.

Cas winced a lot, and Dean could see why—what, did souls leave exit wounds or something? Though he did note that the oozing burns and sores seemed to be gone—at least that was something. Dean didn’t think he could’ve handled living with Cas if he was gonna have to look at him if he looked—looked like _that_. Like that thing that had _killed_ him. Once he finished his back, he rinsed the rag in the sink before re-soaping it; the water was already a murky red-grey from all the blood and dirt and ash sloughing off of him.

Dean was about to start on his arms when he noticed that Cas was managing to sit up without having to be held up. That was enough for him. “Here,” Dean said gruffly, thrusting the rag at him. “Do your—the rest of yourself.”

When Cas’s shaking hand finally liberated him of the foamy cloth, Dean hove himself up quickly and went to sit on the still-closed lid of the can. He leaned his elbows on his knees, only watching Cas out of the corner of his eye to make sure he didn’t slump over and drown.

As Cas began finally cleaning himself on his own—well, that was a little too generous, he was more or less just _patting_ himself, but Dean was past caring, so long as he wasn’t the one who had to do it—Dean used the relative silence to finally sit and do his thinking. He’d wanted to think on maybe trying to remember what had happened out there—in there. Or maybe think on why he—why _Cas_ had—why _everything_. He just wanted to think about _why_ and figure out what the fuck had _happened_.

Unfortunately, the only thing he could actually think about was Sam—both Sam and Bobby, really, both of them _staring_ at him, staring at the way Cas’s fingers had clung to his jacket, his face buried against Dean’s chest—both of them staring at the blood he’d felt smeared on his mouth. _Cas’s_ blood.

His hands clenched into fists. They were downstairs, just _talking_. God knew what Sam was saying—maybe he was confidently telling Bobby all about how he always knew his brother was a complete fruit. Or maybe it was Bobby telling Sam that part. Or maybe both of them were saying it. No doubt they both thought he was in the tub _with_ Cas—

Dean pushed himself sharply backwards against the toilet tank, folding his arms tightly across his chest with more force than was necessary and pointedly not looking at Cas floundering around in the now near-black water. He’d just saved both their asses and probably the whole world, and all they cared about was how they thought he was _gay_. Never mind he didn’t start it, never mind he’d been just as freaked out—probably more, _they_ weren’t the ones who got jumped by an angel!—never mind all the women he’d been with, no, no, he was now a friggin’ flamer and that was that, so oooh, let’s just sit downstairs and _gossip_. Yes, their priorities were _clearly_ sorted out. Once more, he squashed the urge to storm down there and tell them both to blow him.

He felt his neck burn when he realized they’d probably throw that one right back in his face.

Dean suddenly became aware that the weak splashing had stopped. He blinked, looking down at the bathtub. Cas was just sitting there, and he was staring at him, and Dean refused to acknowledge the way that made his stomach clench a little. He hadn’t made any effort to rinse himself off and so was still covered in grimy soapsuds. Dean’s mouth twisted as he got back up, uncomfortable as his wet jeans stuck to his legs. Well, he thought as he glanced down at the nasty water, he was about to get wetter.

“Get up,” he sighed, bending down and grabbing him under the arms after he yanked on the chain hung around the faucet and the water began to gurgle down the drain. Once Cas was back on his feet, Dean braced his arm against the wall of the shower and ordered him to hang onto it and stay standing. After angling the showerhead towards the wall, he managed to awkwardly lean down and started the shower this time. He didn’t even bother trying to get the water warm—he’d just run an entire tub full of very hot water, so Bobby’s tank probably hadn’t even begun to recover, anyway. Once more telling Cas to stand still, he grabbed the showerhead and twisted it back, aiming it right at him.

Any other time, Dean probably would’ve laughed at the pathetic intake of breath he heard when the cold water hit Cas. Instead, he just grimaced as his arm got soaked too, Cas clinging to him like a cat on a tree limb. He didn’t waste any time—after a few seconds on the front, he managed to get Cas turned around and let the cold shower splash down the back, too, and then he slammed off the water and dragged him out, carting him over to the towels.

He thrust one of the bigger ones into his hands and roughly dropped another one on his head. Dean huffed out an irritated breath through his nose and growled, “Wrap that around yourself, would you?” when Cas just held the towel limply in his hands, and then almost shouted, “Around your _waist_!” when it looked like he was about to try and drape it on his shoulders.

Cas did as he was told, albeit slowly and clumsily and all while leaning on Dean and getting him wetter and smearing more blood on him from the wounds that had reopened after having all that dirt and crusted blood washed off of them. Dean got an arm around his back again and, after detouring to the medicine cabinet to grab the standard hunter’s first aid kit he knew Bobby would have there, manhandled Cas out into the hallway and into the south bedroom as quickly as he could before either of the two pricks downstairs could see him, kicking the door shut behind them and dumping Cas unceremoniously on the edge of the bed. He wobbled a little, but didn’t just fall backwards onto it, so Dean left him there while he grabbed the spindly chair across the room and dragged it next to where Cas was still sitting with that towel on his head like a little wet nun.

He tossed the first aid kit down on the bed next to him and opened it before turning his attention to Cas, yanking the towel off of the top of his head. There were plenty of bruises and scrapes and cuts and burns all over him, but very few of them would require anything more than a few dabs with antiseptic. A couple would need bandages, as they had started bleeding again, and there was at least one spot that would definitely need stitches. Those would come first. Turning and rummaging around in the kit, he pulled out what he needed, set his jaw, and went to work.

Cas occasionally twitched and winced, but for the most part, stayed still and silent as Dean operated. He didn’t really look at him, either, just stared at the faded rug on the floor, his eyes distant and dull. Dean was rather grateful for all of the above; just because stitching up war wounds was old hat didn’t mean he couldn’t screw up, and Cas talking or _staring_ at him… _especially_ if he was _staring_ at him…

It didn’t take long. After tying the catgut off on the spot on his ribs, he cut it and doused some gauze in disinfectant—had to all but give Cas another bath in the stuff, he was so cut up. But those would heal quickly, the bruises would fade, and he’d be fine—physically, anyway.

Dean pursed his lips, getting back up and turning to the kit, putting away the supplies much more deliberately than he normally would and not looking Cas.

“Thank you.”

Dean’s hands fumbled a little with the gauze he was rolling back up, and his spine stiffened a little. Cas’s voice was barely more than a whisper, rough and broken and small, but it might as well have been a gunshot in the silence that had been over the room. Dean stared down at the first aid kit in front of him, swallowing a few times and taking a few breaths. Finally, he just made a noncommittal grunt in the back of his throat and forcefully packed the rest of the kit away.

Simply to avoid having to turn around again, he lugged the chair back to its place under the ancient desk, even going so far as to push the chair in underneath it. He was contemplating taking the first aid kit back to the bathroom, perhaps scooping Cas’s clothes up off of where he’d left them on the floor while he was there, maybe even scrubbing away what would undoubtedly be an impressive and filthy ring around Bobby’s bathtub, when Cas spoke again.

“Dean…”

Maybe it was the way he said it. Maybe it was because when Cas said his name, it came with so much emotional baggage, not the least of which was that disturbing _veneration_ —or maybe it was because it made his insides twist for reasons he didn’t understand— _couldn’t_ understand, goddammit—but it was enough to finally make Dean turn around and face him, his arms tight around his chest. And Dean looked at him, sitting there all damp and shivering and diminished, wrapped in nothing but a ratty old towel, his eyes glistening again, and it was enough to unlock his throat.

“What, Cas?” Dean drummed his fingers against his elbow, looking at the wall for a moment before turning back to him. “What?”

Cas’s mouth opened, but no sound came out; Dean was appalled to see his lower lip was trembling. _Oh, Jesus, he’s gonna start crying again._ Dean could _not_ handle that, not now. He couldn’t handle it because Cas didn’t fucking _do_ that, because he was a fucking _angel_ and angels didn’t fucking cry! But Cas _wasn’t_ an angel now, he was—why couldn’t he fucking control himself?! He looked away again, his jaw tight.

“I’m sorry,” Cas whispered.

Dean really didn’t want to hear Cas say he was sorry anymore—him saying how sorry he was and somehow _making_ Dean just _instantly_ forgive him was what had led to _that_ in the first place. “Sorry? You’re sorry,” Dean repeated. “Remember that time I said you needed a bigger word than ‘sorry’? Well, we’re at that point again, Cas—probably worse.” Dean risked a glance at him again, and _goddammit_ , there were those awful, silent tears again. Dean couldn’t help it—he started pacing, the wood beneath his boots creaking with each step. “I don’t give a shit about you being sorry, Cas—I just want an _explanation_. How about a _why_? Do you—”

Dean stopped facing the wall, dragging his hand through his hair, and when he spoke again his words were deliberate and low as he struggled to keep his voice down. “Why did you do it, Cas?”

There was silence for a moment, no sound but Dean’s shaky breathing. Finally that same small, broken voice spoke up again. “I…I didn’t know it would…I just wanted…I thought…” Silence again. Then: “I was prideful.”

Dean stared incredulously at the wall for a moment more before whirling on him. “ _Prideful?!_ ” he demanded, and Cas turned his watery stare to the floor, almost seeming to shrink in on himself. “What—what the hell does _pride_ have anything to do with what you did?!”

Cas’s eyes were closed, tears still leaking out of the corners. “I thought I…I assumed I knew what I was doing, that what I was doing was right, because—” whatever he was trying to say seemed to stick in his throat, but he finally forced it out, “—because God brought me back. And…any path to keeping the Apocalypse from beginning again was surely the right one. I didn’t…think. I didn’t realize—I didn’t _know_ …” He finally opened his eyes and looked back up at Dean, and his voice was barely audible. “I don’t understand why…why God would let me have free will when I…when I so clearly don’t deserve it.”

Dean stared. “Cas,” he said deliberately, “I’m not talking about your little psycho trip.” Cas blinked slowly at him, and Dean stepped forward, his arms dropping to his sides. “I _know_ why you did that—you did that because you _fucked up_. You did that because you wouldn’t listen to anyone because you turned into a big angelic dick again and thought that because you _are_ an angel, you could do no wrong. You did all that because you thought free will meant _any_ choice you make’ll be the right one. And you did everything after _that_ because you sucked down millions of souls that were way past their expiration date and they rotted your brain and possessed you, because you didn’t _think_ about just what might happen if you did it, no, all you thought about was _doing_ it. You did it because you don’t seem to grasp that actions have some goddamn consequences!” He hadn’t really meant to be practically shouting in Cas’s face by the end of his tirade, but trying not to hurt Cas’s feelings was way, _way_ down at the bottom of his list of Things to Do. Drawing back a little, he forced his fists to unclench a tad, staring down at Cas; he pretty much looked like he wanted to die. Well, screw that—if he died, Dean wouldn’t have a chance to throttle him for makin’ him friggin’—friggin’ _feel_ this way.

“So yeah—I got that part easy. I know all about that part—I knew why you did all that before you even did it. I get it, and I don’t care about it—that’s over. I’m talkin’ about _after_ , or did you somehow _forget_ that you—” Jesus, he could barely even make himself say it, “—you fucking _kissed_ me, Cas!”

Despite the fact that he still looked utterly broken and lost, Cas managed that old, familiar expression of blank confusion. With a painful jolt, Dean realized out of nowhere that it had been over a year since he’d seen Cas give him that look, and there was a sudden, unexpected sting behind his eyes at the sight of it now and that warm feeling spreading through his chest at the sight of _Cas_. Dean swallowed once before starting up again. “One second, we’re talking, the next you’re all over me. _That’s_ what I want explained,” he ground out.

Cas was just staring at him uncomprehendingly, his brow furrowed, like he always had whenever Dean said something that flew right over his head (which was pretty much everything he said). Dean was about to demand if he needed the question reduced to even _simpler_ terms when he finally responded. “…I love you, Dean,” he said quietly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world and a completely acceptable response and something he could just say.

“You—” Dean couldn’t repeat it. “When did you just up and decide _this_?”

That unblinking, bewildered expression was still there. “I didn’t,” he said.

Dean breathed deep through his nose. “Okay—when did this _happen_? You just wake up from a bad trip and decide dudes are awesome and figure since I’m closest you’ll start with me?” he demanded.

Cas’s expression made it pretty clear he didn’t understand a word of what he’d just said. Dean decided it was time to be as basic as possible for the naked idiot in front of him. He chose his words slowly and deliberately. “Cas, how long have you—” Dean swallowed hard. _Winchester, just man up and say it._ “How long have you been—in…love with me?”

Holy shit, to just come out and _say_ that—he had to stop looking at Cas, who still had that befuddled wet look on his face. “I don’t—I don’t understand,” he started.

“You didn’t just wake up from your god complex swooning over me!” Dean suddenly burst, not caring that he was raising his voice again and that those two bastards downstairs were probably eavesdropping. “ _When did this happen?!_ ”

“Dean, I—” Cas was just boggling up at him, head-tilt and everything. “Since I’ve known you, everything I’ve ever done has…has been for _you_. You—you know that. My first act of disobedience, when I Fell, fighting against my brothers, both times I died, even—” He squeezed his eyes shut, and Dean pursed his lips and stared at the floor when more tears leaked out. “—even…starting the civil war and…all of what I did.” He opened his eyes again and looked up at Dean, all openness and honesty and adoration and confusion and guilt and Dean could barely stare back at him. “I did it because I loved you.”

Dean’s stomach twisted. Oh, _now_ he was staring, his hands clenched into fists and his posture rigid. “You mean to tell me you’ve been like this the _whole goddamn time_?!” Dean snarled. Cas just blinked at him. “Were you ever planning on telling _me_?!”

“I—I thought I did.”

“When the fuck did you _ever_ say that you—you’ve _never_ told me this!” Dean bellowed.

Cas seemed to be struggling for words. “I always came when you called, I rebelled when you asked me to, I always helped when you needed it, I always do—” the words caught in his throat, and then there was that deep shame in his face again, “— _did_ what you told me to do, and I…I told you that I did it for you, I’ve said—”

“So, what?” Dean interrupted furiously. “All that shit, those were your little love notes to me? You weren’t doin’ it because it was the right thing to do, but because you thought, what, that it would make me _like_ you?”

Cas flinched, as if Dean had struck him. He just sat there, staring at his hands in his lap. “I…I don’t understand, Dean. You…you said we—”

“Don’t you _dare_ say what I think you’re gonna say,” Dean growled.

“Sam loves you,” Cas murmured. “Bobby loves you.” He finally looked back up, meeting Dean’s eyes with his own. “Why can’t I? Why—”

“Because they’re my _family_ , goddammit!” Dean bellowed. “Because Sam doesn’t—Sam doesn’t wanna _make out_ with me!”

Cas just blinked at him with those stupid sheep’s eyes. “I don’t want to make anything with you,” he replied blankly.

Dean made a frustrated growling sound in his throat and threw up his hands, storming to the other side of the room, grabbing the back of his neck; he had a headache. After staring at the wall for a few moments, he whirled back around to face Cas.

“So that’s it? You jump me, tell me all about how you— _love_ me, have this _whole fucking time_ , and I’m just supposed to be fine with this?” he snapped, glaring at him. “What, you get into chick flicks when you were out playing God, think that because you say you love me, I’ll just fall all over myself and love you back?”

At his words Cas just sort of crumpled, looking about as broken and wretched as he did four hours ago in the bottom of that smoky crater and Dean hated that he felt sorry for him. “No,” he said quietly, staring at Dean’s boots. “I don’t expect you to care about me anymore. I’m…after what I did, I deserve nothing from you or anyone else, least of all love. I did…I did so much of everything saying it was for you and because I loved you, and I thought you didn’t…” His eyes closed again. “I’ve earned nothing but your hatred and contempt twice over. My Father gave me free will and you gave me your trust and I…I betrayed you all.” He looked up, his eyes wet, and his Adam’s apple bobbed.

“What is this?” Dean demanded before he could start talking again. “You goin’ back on that again? Tryin’ to, uh, I don’t know, _guilt trip_ me now or something? Dammit, I already said that was over, Cas! Yeah, I’m pissed—we all are! But now you’re changing the fucking subject!” he roared down at him. “Stop tryin’ to make me _feel bad_ by bringing up how oh, you’re a monster and just want to curl up and die now!”

That guilt was once again tinged with confusion as Cas just minutely shook his head. “I’m not trying to—” he started.

“Then what _are_ you doing?!”

Cas blinked owlishly up at him again, his blue eyes red-rimmed and glistening. “I’m just…I’m saying I’m sorry for—”

Looking back on it, Dean still wasn’t sure when he started moving, but one minute he was just fuming down at Cas and the next his fist was swinging through the air and he was screaming, “ _Stop fucking apologizing!_ ” and then there was the wet and satisfying _thud_ Dean’s fist made when it smashed into Cas’s mouth.

Dean had only ever hit Cas once before in his life—and he’d nearly broken his hand doing it. It had been like punching a three-foot-thick steel wall, and Cas hadn’t even flinched, just stared mournfully back at him like a feathery basset hound. But Cas had been an angel then—and now he was just a man, and he went down like a ton of bricks.

All Dean could do for a moment was stare at the way he just…fell backwards, taking the punch like a _human_. He hadn’t tried to dodge or protect himself, and so he’d caught the full brunt of it. Dean felt flecks of hot blood on his knuckles, and yet when Cas finally managed to look up from where he’d barely managed to catch himself on the bed, Dean was somehow still surprised to see the blood dripping from his split lip, dribbling down his chin and onto the threadbare towel covering his lap.

But it was so much worse that he saw no hurt or resentment in his eyes, just that same _horrible_ sorrow and regret he’d had since Cas first opened his eyes at Ground Zero.

Gritting his teeth, Dean clenched his fists tighter to get his temper under control, counting to three for what felt like the millionth time today. “Cas,” he ground out, pleased that his voice was measured and quiet, “this isn’t about you…going dark side. You did it, okay? And it’s all on you. You knew it was a bad choice and you did it anyway—free will is a bitch like that.” He stepped closer, leaning over Cas as he stared feebly up at him. “But _we forgave you for it_. _I_ fucking forgave you for it!” He flapped his arms. “For _all_ of it! You heard me! I wasn’t fucking kidding or something! And I forgave you because that’s what _family does_. _Family_ , Cas! You—you think I didn’t mean it those times I told you that?! You didn’t—” He swallowed. “You didn’t think I meant what I said back there?! You—”

The words got stuck in his throat, and for a moment, all Dean could do was stand there, quivering as he was stuck in that frozen state where he debated on which option would be better—screaming again, throwing more punches, or perhaps a lovely combination of the two.

But that goddamn _confusion_ was back again, that look Dean hadn’t realized he’d missed and wanted to see again until he finally _did_ see it after he’d been stuck with that dark, horribly _wrong_ serenity that Cas had worn for over a year when he’d been filled to the brim with those souls, and it was mixed with something like disbelief and faint hope. Dean was considering just walking away because if the scrawny runt didn’t get it after all of this, he knew Cas’d _never_ get it, no matter how hard he tried to beat it into him, when he haltingly said, “If…if we’re family, and you…forgive me and…you still love me…I don’t understand why…why you’re so angry with me because I love you too.”

And still Cas just stared at him, confused and pathetic and guilty and miserable, and Dean stared back, just as confused…until he was slammed in the face with the realization that _that_ hadn’t been what Cas had meant at all, hadn’t been what he’d _done_ at all, that he was just…that he had only…that _Dean_ had been the one who’d—

—that _that_ was what the feeling deep in his chest was—

_Fuck._

He needed to sit down. He made it to the end of the bed and just let his knees go, sitting heavily down on the sagging mattress, which wheezed beneath his weight. He laced his fingers tight around the back of his neck, his head bowed and his elbows on his knees, before dragging his hands up over his head and through his hair, to bring the heels of his hands to dig into his eyes.

_Fuck fuck fuck._

Scrubbing his hand over his face, wishing he could just…he didn’t know, but he wished he could do _something_ , goddammit. Maybe just leave and get the fuck away from all of this.

Dean raised his head—and froze halfway through the motion. His eyes unerringly spotted the thin, bare thigh that was pressed against his own where the sagging bed had brought them together, and to his complete outrage, he felt himself _blushing_ like some stupid high school reject. _What the hell, man?_

Glowering, he looked up—to find Cas watching him with that achingly familiar expression, half-confusion, half-concern.

Only he was bleeding. A trickle of blood was running its way down his chin from where Dean had split his lip, and a few wayward drops had escaped to sprinkle little red dots on the towel bunched up in his lap.

“Dammit, Cas,” he grunted, looking behind him until he found the other discarded towel. “You’re bleeding everywhere—don’t you have enough sense to wipe your mouth?” He gripped Cas’s shoulder to turn him toward him, and then roughly wiped away the blood with one corner of the towel before blotting at the cut in his lip.

He was sorry he’d done it afterward, ‘cause now he was facing Cas, and he couldn’t help but meet his eyes. He was confused and everything like usual, but Jesus Christ, why the hell was he looking at him with such _gratitude_ just for wiping his mouth? He was the one who’d hit him in the first place!

It just made Dean want to punch him again—or maybe it was just that he wanted to punch himself.

He was suddenly burningly aware that his hand was clamped down on the bare skin of Cas’s shoulder, and his face heated up _again_. But Cas was looking at him with such a pathetically _hopeful_ expression, even though he didn’t know he was doing it, Dean could tell, and all Cas wanted was just—he wasn’t asking him to—didn’t want—

Dean sighed explosively, feeling more old and tired than he ever had in his life, and he turned away to face the door again, but before he could think better of it he reached around to grasp Cas’s other shoulder, his arm across his shoulders but thankfully separated by the material of his sleeve.

He felt different now; he’d noticed it back in that crater, but now he was _really_ noticing it. Dean had put his arm around him once before, and he’d been solid and upright and cool beneath him, his human skin unable to completely hide the fact that he just wasn’t human. Now he was all warm skin and fragile bones and he moved beneath the weight of Dean’s arm, and he wobbled when Dean squeezed his shoulder and gave him a friendly shake and managed to force himself to say, “I’m not—I’m not mad at you for—for that, Cas.”

And he wasn’t. Oh, he _wanted_ to be, but…no. He couldn’t. Not when he’d just been socked in the face with the reality that while Cas had _started_ that in the crater, Dean was the one who had _finished it_.

He risked another glance at Cas. Neither one of them were smiling like that time he’d dragged them both out into the alley to avoid the bouncers, but Cas still had those furrowed brows and had no idea what Dean was saying. “I’m not _mad_ —” he tried again, “—that you—if you—it’s okay that you—”

Dean gave up. It wasn’t coming out, and Cas wouldn’t get it even if he could. Hell, he didn’t get it either right now. “We’re fine, Cas,” he just said tiredly, rubbing his hand over his face again, wishing that things could just friggin’ make sense for a change. “I’m not mad.”

And, of course, because he was Cas, Dean could see with even that piss-poor copout that was enough, that he was just gonna take it like that because _he’d_ said it. His eyes were filled with disbelief, and Christ, was he gonna start crying again? _Why_ did he keep _doing_ that?!

Well, whatever he was going to do, he need to stop _staring_ at him like he was gonna start kissing his feet or something. Dean was gonna hand him his teeth if he didn’t stop it because he was just a regular guy, same as always. He wasn’t any different than he ever was, but you just forgave the people you cared about. He’d told Cas that time and time again, and he never listened, and now he was fucking looking at him like he was the Second Coming.

Without warning, Cas moved. He seemed to sag, and Dean started, ready to catch him if he’d passed out—

—but then he went rigid as he realized that he hadn’t _fallen_ down, he’d _laid_ down. He’d leaned over and laid his head right on Dean’s shoulder, and where his arm was still around him Dean could feel his breath hitching, and then a tentative arm rose up across the small of his back and further, his hand curling around his ribs, and shit, now Cas was hugging him. _Hugging_ him.

No, he was _crying_ on him; Dean could feel him pressing his cheek into the fabric of his shirt like he was a little kid, the hot drops that fell on his shoulder seeping through his shirt to make little wet dots against his skin. His face burning, Dean racked his brain, trying to think what he’d do if it was Sam crying on him and failing utterly, mostly because Sam _didn’t_ and hadn’t since he was really little. What he hell was he supposed to do with a grown man blubbering all over him? Guys didn’t _do_ that— _angels_ didn’t fucking do that—and they didn’t _kiss_ each other either, goddammit! But leave it to Cas not to get that, so here he was all up in his business and thinking it was all perfectly okay—but what was he supposed to do, just throw him off? He wouldn’t get it, and he’d get that kicked-dog look on his face again, and he’d think that Dean hated him or something when all he wanted was for him to just stop being so—so _girly_ about everything. Cas was a _dude_ , and he had to learn that he just couldn’t _do_ stuff like that. But most of all, he wanted him to stop being so fucking touchy-feely because it was making him feel…weird.

But since he didn’t know what else to do, Dean just sat there and let Cas cling to him like a burr. He gave an exasperated sigh, and then sort of resignedly gave Cas’s shoulder a rough squeeze to try and tell him that it was okay, and hopefully he’d get a hold of himself.

Cas’s hair was starting to dry and was sticking up in little damp points that were tickling Dean’s cheek. Irritated, he pulled his head away to get away from them, but to his outrage, Cas just seemed to follow him, tucking himself in closer and, dammit, he was mashing his face up against his neck! That was not allowed! This went way, _way_ beyond a mere violation of personal space, and Dean was gonna—

Cas gave a small sniff, and the sound was so foreign and so pitiful coming from him that Dean’s fury subsided into a helpless sort of confusion. Goddammit, he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what to fucking _do_ , and he didn’t know why he—why that stupid part of him that had gotten him into this mess in the first fucking place was _okay_ with this. His shoulders slumped, and he just gave in and leaned to the other side, flattening Cas’s spiky hair with his cheek as he leaned down against the top of his head. Fine. If he was going to act like a great big baby, then Dean was just gonna treat him like one.

Cas echoed his sigh, and he sounded so tired…but he sounded so happy, too, like he couldn’t imagine anything better than where he was right now. Well, Dean sure as hell could, and it involved a quart of Scotch whiskey and Julie Newmar dressed as Catwoman. But he was stuck here, with Cas dribbling all over him, refusing to acknowledge that he’d had _any_ sort of inclination to reach up with his other arm and get them _both_ around Cas because sitting here like this was one thing, actively holding Cas was another.

He stiffened at the sudden, shocking sensation of Cas’s lips moving against his skin, and was so appalled by it and by the sudden rush of heat into his face that he almost didn’t realize that Cas was talking and that the touch was _accidental_ , but even the knowledge that he was just _talking_ to him didn’t subdue the pounding of his pulse in his ears.

“…so sorry, Dean,” he was murmuring.

“Cas, I told you to quit apologizing,” he forced out, staring off to the side and methodically counting the flowers on the butt-ugly paper that covered the walls in this room. “It’s all over, so quit going on about it. Just…just don’t go and do that again,” he added, pleased that the slightly joking note to his voice that he’d intended came through.

Cas was still for a moment, and then sat up, thank God, and got off of his neck, but then no, _not_ thank God, because he didn’t get all the way up and now he was within inches from Dean’s face, _kissing_ distance again, and he was staring into his eyes with that upsettingly-familiar focus, and Dean tensed, just waiting for it and he was _not_ gonna get fucking _carried away_ , he’d split his _other_ lip if he did—

“How?”

Dean blinked. “What?” he asked rather stupidly.

“How…” Cas trailed off, licking at his cracked lip, and Dean stared at the tip of his pink tongue poking out of his mouth until he caught himself doing it and looked away, flushing again. “How can you just…forgive me? For…for what I did?”

How the hell was he supposed to talk to him when he was still hanging off him like this? How the hell was he supposed to even _answer_ that, because _he_ didn’t know how he’d just forgiven him, either! But Dean just swallowed, his mouth dry, and went ahead anyway. “I told you, Cas—that’s just what you do for—for people—” Jesus, he couldn’t even get this out. “Here—how ‘bout this?” he tried again. “Would you forgive me, if I’d done it?”

Cas stared at him, his forehead creased, and then Dean nearly laughed aloud at the almost comical look on his face as he suddenly just _got_ it. “There you go,” he informed him. “That’s it—that’s how.”

But then his face wasn’t funny anymore, not with Cas giving him that _adoring_ look again, and this time it was almost a relief when he laid his head back down, burying his face in Dean’s neck again.

Almost—because having Cas _nuzzling_ at him was never going to count as any kind of relief, particularly not when the soft puffing of his breath was giving him goosebumps. But he just didn’t have to heart to push him away anymore, not when it was obvious that he could barely understand how they could forgive him for his epic fuckery over the past few years. Not that Dean could blame him there, because what the _fuck_ , man—but why did— _why_ was _Dean_ so _cool_ with all of this?! Why was he sitting up here with Cas like _this_? Why was he sitting with him at _all_?!

Well, because that warm spark in his chest wouldn’t go away. The one he didn’t know what—

It was to make Cas feel better. That’s all this was. Not that he should care _about_ making the sorry son of a bitch feel better, not after all the shit he’d pulled, but—but Dean’d already said he’d forgiven him, and so had everyone else down in that crater, so God knew what would happen if they suddenly started taking it back. They’d both somehow survived that fucking explosion, so he wasn’t gonna make Cas go off and _kill himself_ or some shit just because he thought they all hated him—he was stupid enough to do it.

That was the problem, though, wasn’t it? Cas just _didn’t get it_ yet. That was why Dean wasn’t pushing Cas off and making him get away from him, because he had to let him do his thing—he was _new_ to this whole “emotion” thing, and even newer to the concept of real family. Sam and Dean had always had each other, and even though they’d had some truly blockbuster throwdowns in their time, he and Sam would always forgive each other. But Cas didn’t know that. He didn’t understand family— _real_ family, not all those winged dicks up there swingin’ on the Pearly Gates. Cas didn’t know that no matter what, he would still…he was his…they’d _all_ still care about him, dammit.

At the thought, Dean suddenly realized he was unconsciously squeezing Cas a little tighter, leaning his head down against Cas’s—oh, what the _fuck_? What was _wrong_ with him?!

But before he could move, he suddenly felt Cas’s lips again and he froze, because this time it was _not_ an accident, not the way they were pressing softly on the corner of his jaw, just below his ear, and this time Dean knew he didn’t mean anything by it, but fuckitall, that wasn’t something you could do!

He stayed stiff and upright, his jaw tight, as Cas settled back down on his shoulder, and Dean continued to sit there, rigid and unmoving for he didn’t know how long until he felt Cas’s hand on his back slip, and realized with some alarm that his breathing had deepened and was going slow and even.

“Hey,” he said with a touch of sharpness, jostling his shoulder a little, and he felt Cas start against him. “Don’t you fall asleep on me,” he said warningly. Cas sat up, blinking confusedly at him, his blue eyes bleary and one half of his hair flattened to his head while the other half stuck up in a lopsided mohawk.

Dean was relieved to be able to drop his arm, no matter how cold the air in the room was without Cas’s heat against it. “Come on, man,” he huffed, “you’ve had the mother of all bad trips. You need to sleep.” _And I need to get out of this room away from you._

Cas followed him with his eyes as Dean got up, but the only move he made was to grip his own elbows, and Dean frowned when he saw his bony shoulders shivering a little. He stared for a moment more, and then, with a sudden realization, wanted to kick himself. _Cas isn’t an angel anymore, jackass, and he’s all beat to shit and wet and here you have him sitting here in the cold in nothing but a towel._ No wonder he was like static cling—he was freezing.

“Come on, Cas—get in bed,” he said, tugging at the worn but clean sheets that Cas was sitting on. “It’s cold in here and you’re gonna get sick, sitting here all wet like this.”

Getting him into bed was mostly uneventful, save for when Cas made to stand up and Dean all but shouted at him to hold his damn towel up—Dean had seen enough of Cas already to last him a lifetime. He yanked the sheets down and pointed to the sagging mattress, and then stood by with his arms crossed, watching Cas drag his sorry ass into the bed. Cas slowly grabbed the covers and pulled them around himself, which just made him look even more small and pitiful, all wrapped up and trembling. Dean heaved a sigh, just staring down at him for a few moments, and then turned to leave.

“Dean.”

_Dammit!_

He only half-turned, his mouth tight. “What?” he grunted. “You better not be asking me to read you a bedtime story.”

Dean grimaced, because Cas was _looking_ at him again, only that sorrow and guilt was back and if he was gonna start saying he was _sorry_ again Dean was going to drag him out of bed and—

“What…what are we going to do now?”

Oh, _Christ_ , of all the things he could have asked…Dean didn’t bother hiding the fact that he was glaring now, his hands gripping his elbows. “How the hell should I know?” he growled at him.

Cas pushed himself up again, the sheets pooling around his waist. “I’m not….you can’t—” He swallowed, and Dean shifted on his feet, horribly uncomfortable—he thought this conversation was over! “I don’t know what to do,” Cas continued in that small, weak voice. “I only know that I am—” Dean’s face flushed darkly, his brain filling in the blanks in his sentences in a million awful ways. He found himself looking away as Cas, despite being just as a human now, fixed his eyes on him with that intense stare that cut right through him.

“I can’t be trusted,” he finally said, and Dean blinked. “I _can’t_ have free will. You…you have to…”

Dean stared at him, trying to separate what Cas was actually saying from what Dean _thought_ he was going to say, and then narrowed his eyes. “Are you trying to say I have to tell you what to do?” Dean demanded.

Cas stared mournfully up at him. “I thought that…I thought that God wanted us to have free will, but…look…look what I did with it,” he said haltingly, as if each word hurt him. “I…I was _wrong_. I can’t be trusted with it…I was never meant to have it at all.” He closed his eyes. “My brother was right. I was not meant to lead. I am— _was_ an angel. I was only ever meant to _follow_.” His shoulders hitched, and his head dropped, and his next words were nearly a whisper. “I…I must have been God’s way of showing the other angels that they couldn’t act without Him…because when we do, we…we just destroy…everything. I can’t…I need…I need you to…”

“I’m not gonna tell you what to do,” Dean said sharply.

Cas’s head came up quickly, and that pleading, desperate look was back. “Dean—please, you have to. I can’t—I can’t _have_ this. Free will wasn’t meant—” he started.

“You can’t just _give it back_ , Cas,” Dean cut him off. “You got it, now you have it, and now you’re gonna just have to deal with it.”

“But…” Cas licked his lips. “Look at what I _did_ —”

“That’s how free will works, idiot,” Dean snapped. “What, did you think it’d be all peaches and cream, that free will only means you’ll make all the _right_ choices? Sorry, Cas—if you’re free to choose your own way, that means you’re free to completely screw up. And you did, big time—now you have to live with it.”

Dean glared at him as Cas just shook his head slowly, staring at the worn sheets of the bed. “I can’t,” he whispered. “I _can’t_ , Dean, I—I nearly destroyed—”

“I picked up the knife in Hell and broke the first seal!” Dean snarled. “Sam killed Lilith and broke the last one! _We_ nearly ended the world _ourselves_ all because of free will—we didn’t _have_ to do that, nobody _told_ us to do it, nobody _made_ us do it, we _chose_ to do it! That’s how it _works_!”

Dammit, he _still_ didn’t get it. Cas still had that _beseeching_ look, was still trying to beg Dean to give him some orders or something because he didn’t _want_ choice anymore—no, he didn’t want it now that he found out he’d have to feed and water it every day. “Dean, _please_ —what I did to you and to Sam and everything…I wasn’t _meant_ for this, angels weren’t meant for free will. I need…I need to be _told_ …I’m sorry—”

Cas didn’t get to finish, because he’d just said he was _sorry_ again, and before Dean realized he had moved he was bearing down on Cas, his hands clenched into fists.

“I’m not fucking telling you what to do!” he shouted. “This isn’t about whether you’re supposed to have free will or not, Cas—it’s about you not wanting to take responsibility for the bad choices you make!”

Cas was shrinking in on himself again, but Dean wasn’t even close to being done. “What makes you think I even know if half of the choices I make are the right ones?! I’ve fucked up more times than I can count! Hell, I barely even know what to pick for _breakfast_ sometimes, and then you sit there and whine that _I_ have to tell _you_ what to do?! No way, because that means if you do the wrong thing, you can just blame _me_ for it! Fuck that, Cas, your choices are _your_ choices! Free will doesn’t come with a return receipt! You have it—now _deal with it_ , goddammit!”

He was trying to talk again. “But—Dean, I was never meant—”

“ _Quit goin’ on about that!_ ” Dean bellowed. “It doesn’t matter what angels were or weren’t meant to have, because in case you didn’t notice, _you’re not an angel anymore_! You’re a man now, so _fucking act like it_!”

Cas flinched like Dean had hit him again. Dean just glowered at him, his quick and angry breaths the only sound in the room for a moment. Cas finally looked back up at him, and _godfuckingdammit_ , his blue eyes were all wet again.

“I…I’m s—”

“Cas, if you say you’re sorry one more fuckin’ time, I’m gonna break your nose.”

Cas shut his mouth, thank God. Naturally, he was still all pitiful and tremble-lipping again, and Dean was inclined to break his nose for that instead because that—that just didn’t _look_ right. However, he didn’t, instead keeping his hand occupied by running it roughly over his own face again.

Why, oh _why_ , did it _always_ fall to _him_ to try and talk Cas through…whatever he was going through? And why did he have to do it _now_ , when he didn’t even know that _he_ was going through, much less Cas?

“Look,” he began, reaching down and gripping Cas’s shoulder again, forcing him to look up at him, “guilt hurts. Okay? It does. I know it does—and the bigger the screw-up, the worse it feels. But you just…” _Jesus, I sound like Sam_ , he groused to himself. “You just learn to live with it, mostly ‘cause that’s all you can really _do_. But…” He flapped his free arm a little. “It’s a good thing in the end, I guess, ‘cause it means you’re sorry for it and you know it’s wrong and you won’t do it again.”

He finished in a rush, praying to whatever powers there were that Cas would please, _please_ understand what he’d been told. Cas just stared at him, silent and sorrowful, so Dean—just to end the painfully-awkward silence between them—added, “That’s just how it is when you’re human, and since you are one now, you’re gonna have to just…learn.”

Cas looked away. “I’m hardly human,” he whispered. “Powerless and useless—but not human. I don’t have a soul—I have _nothing_.” He met Dean’s eyes. “How can I possibly learn how to live with free will now?”

And once again, Dean felt his anger and aggravation just…diffuse. He felt himself sagging tiredly and angled himself to sit down next to Cas, his hand still on his shoulder.

“It doesn’t matter, Cas,” he sighed. “You’re…close enough. We already went through this de-powered thing, remember? You talked about how useless you were then, but you did fine. You’ll do fine here, too.” Dean shifted a little, facing him a bit more and almost grabbed Cas’s other shoulder too before he thought better of it. “You’ll be fine because you have—” Dean swallowed against the words in his throat. “You still have _us_ , Cas. We’re not gonna tell you what to do…but we’re not gonna just… _abandon_ you and expect you to make all of your own choices now with no help. That’s what family’s for.”

Cas blinked slowly at him, his eyes looking into his and his expression going all hopeful and reverent again. _He keeps that up and I’m gonna smother him with a pillow_ , Dean grimaced to himself, but he kept his patience. “When you have…choices to make that are big, we’ll listen to you and try and help you along, okay? But the choice is _yours_ on whether or not you wanna take our advice,” he said firmly, punctuating his words with a squeeze on Cas’s shoulder. “We just reserve the right to kick your ass if it turns out to be a bad one. That’s _also_ what family’s for,” he added.

Dean managed a tiny smile. “And, seein’ as you aren’t an angel anymore, and I’m pretty sure it’s gonna be for good on the second go-round? I think you’re stuck with us this time,” he finally finished.

He regretted it, of course, because there was that ridiculous _gaze_ , all guilt and hope and misery and disbelief and— _Stop_ looking _at me like that!_ he snarled internally. But Cas didn’t stop, and Dean didn’t look away. They sat in silence for what was way too long, and Dean found himself suddenly hyperaware his hand on Cas’s shoulder, the warmth of his skin burning into his palm, when the dude in question finally spoke again.

“How do you stand it?” he murmured.

Dean was staggered by the familiarity, a strange, almost nostalgic feeling washing over him. Maybe it was the way he’d said it—almost exactly like he had years ago, and for a moment, he was there again. Both of them, sitting outside of the cheap motel in that rotten town, Cas hung over and depressed and miserable, Dean hopeless and resigned to a fate he didn’t want because God had told them all to kiss his worthless ass and there was just nothing left to do…and Cas, as always, looking up at Dean and asking how to get through his issues because he didn’t know how.

 _Happier days_ , Dean thought sardonically. He remembered his answer, too. But, since they didn’t have any whores to kill, he’d have to think of something else this time. Fortunately, it wasn’t too hard to do so.

“Dunno how many times I’m gonna have to repeat it before it sticks with you, man,” he said. “ _That_ is what _family_ is for.”

He was getting so resigned to it now he didn’t even bother letting loose with any mental bitching at the way Cas was looking at him now—though he did tense when one of Cas’s hands tentatively came up and gripped his own where it was still resting on his shoulder.

“No one can just tell you what to do, Cas,” he said hoarsely. “But you can always ask for help, and I—we’ll always be here for you.”

Oh, for God’s sake, he _was_ just a big baby—his eyes had gone all watery again, and it didn’t take long for one to spill over. “Hey,” he said gruffly. “You gotta cut that out, man. People will think you’re a big pansy if you’re cryin’ all the time.”

Cas blinked a little, and then reached up with his free hand to touch the faint salt trail, pulling his fingers away and looking at them as he rubbed the wetness between them. “I suppose I’m going to have to get used to this body in earnest this time,” he said after a moment, turning and flexing his hand in front of his eyes. “I…don’t have control over it, the way I used to. I don’t…understand what makes me cry or…how to stop it.”

Dean snorted. “Oh, don’t you worry—it’ll have plenty of surprises for you. Welcome to humanity,” he said.

That might have been the wrong thing to say; Cas’s face dropped a little, and he looked down. Dean raised his eyes to the ceiling, grinding his teeth again—why couldn’t Sam do this? He was the one who did better with the soppy shit. Casting about again for something to say, he finally settled on, “Hey—it’s not…bad. Better than the other alternatives, you ask me—I wasn’t human for a night and thought it sucked ass. And besides,” he added, “you—I always pretty much thought of you as one of us anyway, you know?”

 _Crap_ , he groaned internally, because there it was—Cas looked back up at him, and he was all devotion and dewy-eyed hope and _goddammit_ , why did he have to look at him like that and why did it have to make his chest tighten?! Why did he have to start this up now?! But Dean just swallowed his discomfort once more and just kept talking, because shutting up after that kind of declaration was what he’d done in that crater and—well, he just wasn’t gonna to do that again.

“So, you know—you’ll be fine,” he managed, trying not to babble. “I know you were only human for, what, three days last time? But you managed. And besides—we aren’t distracted by the rest of your sorority sisters this time and are gonna make sure we keep you hid from ‘em too, so we can keep you close and help you out and all. You’ll…” He swallowed and finally had to turn away because Cas was way, way too close. “You’ll get by,” he finished lamely.

The wallpaper on the far wall really was crap, Dean decided. Not only did it look like something out of the old folks’ home, but it was covered in stains and was curling in places, too, and that strip in the middle had been put up unevenly. Bobby could design a perfect safe room but couldn’t friggin’ decorate a bedroom so that he wasn’t terrified by bad taste every time he woke up? Jesus.

He tore his eyes away from the wallpaper and looked back to Cas—and his mouth went dry again. He was still looking at him, his hand still wrapped around his own, and he was up in his face, and he—

“Go to bed,” he ordered, tugging his hand out of Cas’s grip. Cas let go, looking down at the bed blankets bunched around his middle as if he’d forgotten where he was. Dean was briefly relieved, but no, of course, he’d have to look back up at him again, and why couldn’t he wait to do that when Dean was safely across the room and not five inches away from him?

Oh, and now he was gonna talk again—Dean could tell, just by how he wetted his lips and the way his throat clicked. _Why can’t you just shut up and go to sleep?!_

“Thank you, Dean.”

He all but _breathed_ the words, and Dean shifted uncomfortably. “Nothing to thank me for,” he grunted. “Just…just go to bed, Cas. We’ll—I guess we’ll talk in the morning.”

Dean stared at him for a moment, looking at his mussed-up, flyaway hair, the permanent five o’clock shadow, the narrow shoulders, the ropy arms, and the bright blue eyes—all that familiar stuff on the outside that wasn’t _really_ Cas, but had just been _made_ Cas by everything that had gone down, by everything that had happened over the years, so it might as well have always _been_ Cas and not originally just some poor sap from Illinois who was unlucky enough to get carjacked by an angel.

And in the end, it was Cas no matter what—the _real_ Cas, the one he knew, not that psycho that had been chasing him for over a year. It was just… _Cas._

Without really thinking about it and only feeling that familiar yet unfamiliar heat bloom in his middle, he leaned forward and wrapped an arm around Cas’s shoulders, pulling him into a rough half-embrace. “It’s, uh…” he mumbled, “…it’s good to have you back, Cas.”

For a moment, Cas just sat there, pressed unmoving against Dean with his chin poking into his shoulder. But then Cas’s arms suddenly came up—both of them—and he twisted in bed and leaned forward and the next thing Dean knew Cas was _clinging_ to him, _really_ clinging this time, and his face was buried against his neck and his arms were pulling both of them close together—

_Oh, shit._

Dean had no idea what to do. If he pushed him off he’d probably think he hated him again and get all weepy about it. But _this_ was not acceptable! Not with the way he was pressed up against him— _nakedly_ , he might add!—and his hands were grasping the fabric of his shirt as he hung all over him, and his breath was hot against his skin…

_Shit shit shit shit shit shit—_

Talking—why did Cas have to _talk_?! He could feel his mouth moving again, right there, right where his neck met his shoulder, and he felt him talk as much as he heard those words again, “Thank you, Dean,” murmured all reverent and adoring and right against his skin and he couldn’t help but shiver—

_Fuck!_

“You don’t need to thank me,” he ground out, happy that his voice was not _too_ strangled. “I told you that already. Quit it.”

Cas’s only response was a soft little sigh, and the warm rush of air on his ear made Dean break out into goosebumps again. He cleared his throat and jostled Cas’s head with his shoulder. “Come on, man,” he said, trying to force his voice back to something normal and not quite managing it. “It’s late, and you still need to sleep, and—”

Dean had turned, moving to talk down to where Cas rested, but Cas had obediently raised his head at Dean’s words, and Dean froze when said words just completely died in his throat—because he suddenly found himself inches from Cas’s face, their noses nearly touching, the soft blow of Cas’s breath against his mouth, and Cas was looking him right in the eye.

Blood rushed into his face again, but he didn’t move—no, he _couldn’t_ move, not with Cas looking at him, still fucking _looking_ at him like _that_. Dean sat there like a stone, every muscle in his body tense and quivering, and the heat of Cas’s hands burned through the material of his shirt as if he was gonna leave a new set of handprints seared onto his back.

Dean’s eyes flicked down, anything not to be staring into Cas’s eyes like that, and he crazily found himself staring at the cut on Cas’s lower lip, which had started crusting over—the cut he had given him, he realized idiotically, which was still there because it hadn’t healed. No, because it couldn’t heal, because Cas wasn’t an angel—he was just a human now, for real. But then their noses bumped, and he tore his gaze away in surprise and looked up, only to once more meet Cas’s eyes.

They were soft and sleepy and blue, and even though Cas was blinking more than he ever had when he was an angel, his stare hadn’t changed and as always it just seemed to cut right through him. Dean didn’t know what he saw, staring _into_ him like that, but whatever it was, it was what made him get that goddamn _look_ in his eyes. He really couldn’t take this anymore, and so it was a relief when Dean’s eyes fluttered shut at the feel of a soft mouth beneath his own and he didn’t _have_ to look at him anymore.

_Wait—what?_

Dean started a little, pulling back barely an inch, and found himself looking stupidly at Cas, who was still just staring back, his eyes fixed and unblinking until they looked down at Dean’s lips, and then he angled his head to press his own against them again and then Dean couldn’t see anything. There was only the dark insides of his eyelids and the feel of quick breathing against his cheek and soft skin against his mouth—except for that one rough spot that was that damn cut. He cautiously soothed it with a quick brush of his tongue, tasting the all-too-familiar coppery tang of blood.

Cas had stilled at the touch, until with the next careful stroke of his tongue Dean found Cas’s mouth suddenly open and his tongue thrusting enthusiastically forward to meet him. The hands on his back twitched and then gripped him tight and pulled him close. Dean’s own arm around his shoulders moved restlessly as he sought some purchase, but of course he didn’t find any because Cas wasn’t wearing any damn clothes, so he just kept moving until he felt his fingers tangling in the short hair at the back of Cas’s neck and then he could tilt his head just right to meet him.

Cas’s mouth was hot and eager, his tongue straining clumsily in his excitement. Dean barely kept himself from smirking against him even as he teased his seeking tongue with his own, ‘cause it was Cas, just _Cas_ , here, with him, and his stomach did a slow, lazy turn as his middle filled up with that warm and prickly something. Dean’s free hand groped forward until he found bare, heated flesh: the soft warm stomach, a narrow hip, and his hand slid upwards, around his side and over his ribs to cup—

Nothing.

Just a flat chest with a light sprinkling of hair—

 _SONOFA_ BITCH _!_

Dean jerked away as if burned, heard a quick gasp, and found himself staring in horror at Cas, at fucking _Cas_ , who was flushed and breathing heavily and looking up at him with swollen lips and starry eyes—

_GOD FUCKING DAMMIT!_

Dean shot to his feet, anything to put distance between himself and Cas, his fist clenching uselessly at his sides. His own breathing was fast and his face was hot and his pulse pounding in his ears, and oh, fuck-monkeys, his stomach was a complete traitor and was still turning those familiar circles inside of him and that _feeling what the fuck was that feeling—!_

He scrubbed a furious hand over his face only to realize with something close to nausea that he had _stubble burn_ —

_Shit shit shit motherfucking shit—_

“Go to bed,” he choked out. “Just—”

He couldn’t look at Cas anymore. He spun on his heel, only stumbling a little, and all but ran at the door. He sucked in a breath, his hand on the knob, and managed, “ _Just go to sleep already!_ ” before yanking the door open and practically running out into the hall.

The sound of the slamming door made him jump, and he felt vaguely stupid for it. He briefly considered locking the door behind him, just to make sure Cas wouldn’t be able to come—come _get him_ should he—

Dean stormed down the hall and made a beeline for the stairs, taking them two at a time. Once he hit the bottom, he paused, his hand white-knuckled on the banister as he glared up into the darkened stairwell. The house was quiet; he didn’t hear any doors opening, didn’t hear any creaking from somebody walking down the upstairs hallway—didn’t hear anything but the house settling.

He leaned against the banister, closing his eyes and trying clear his head so he could think. But he couldn’t think—or rather, couldn’t think of anything _else_ but—

Wrenching himself away from the banister, he stalked into the kitchen, yanking open Bobby’s liquor cabinet, and there had better be plenty in there. He was not disappointed and, after liberating it of not one but _two_ bottles, he threw himself into one of the chairs around the kitchen table.

_Fuck._


	4. Vide Cor Meum (Castiel Interlude 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel contemplates humanity and their hearts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally a stand-alone piece written by Mrs. Hyde at the very start of Season Six just after the airing of Episode 6.03. It was first posted on [my LJ](http://das-mervin.livejournal.com/297949.html) in November of 2010 and was rec'd on [fic_slashed](http://fic-slashed.livejournal.com/4837.html). It explored our perceptions of Castiel’s character and his development from a mindless drone of Heaven to an independent being with free will through the course of Seasons Four and Five, and was then incorporated into our take on his character in this series.

* * *

Castiel misses his heartbeat.

It is not something he would have ever thought to miss; having never had one, it was as alien to him as flesh and bone and blood and all those other strange parts that made up a human being.

Upon receiving his orders to take to Earth, he had dutifully searched and found a vessel— _his_ vessel, of the bloodline that sang his name with every beat of their human hearts. He could hear it, calling softly to him beneath the rhythmic thump in the chest of the human, of Jimmy, the man whose form he would wear as he walked the Earth.

It is steady, constant, and Castiel hears it when he watches him, hears it when he speaks to him, hears it when he answers back, when he says “ _yes._ ” And when he flies down and pours himself out and in to fill that empty vessel, in that moment, for the first time he _feels_ that heart beat, feels _everything_ , the burning heat and light and sound of being flesh, of being Jimmy, of being _human_.

Then it is gone, clamped tight, shut down. He is no longer Jimmy, he is _Castiel_ , and an angel has no need or desire for all those corporeal sensations, so powerful and overwhelming as to consume him; he who never felt those things, never felt _anything_ , and so they stop. All vessels simply stop when filled; they do not grow, they do not change, they do not feel.

Their hearts do not beat.

So he thinks of it no more. He doesn’t want to think of it any more, of that searing, agonizing welter of sensation in that moment when he and Jimmy were one. It was painful; worse, it was _human_ , and he is not, and he looks upon those mere physical things with something like contempt. That is all those little humans have, what they can see and touch; he is an angel, and he feels and knows all the Heavens and the Earth without those things. And so his heart doesn’t beat.

It is difficult, being trapped in this constricting, confining skin, seeing with his angel sight and yet not, looking out at the world from this strange, too-close perspective. Forcing himself to see and to listen the way a human does so that he can speak to them in kind with the grunts and noises they call words. He doesn’t like it. But he was ordered to be here, and so he does what he must, and he watches and he listens.

They all look the same to him, these small and limited little creatures that he can’t understand. He wants to, wants to know what it is about them that makes them what they are, that makes them his Father’s favored children. But he sees nothing in their faces and hears nothing in their words that mark them as made in GOD’s image. Yet still he looks, still he listens, and he tries to hear, tries to see what it is that makes them what they are.

He stops and he listens, and he hears their hearts beat.

He knew the sound; it was the first true sound he heard when he took his first steps on the face of the Earth before he wore his vessel. Back when he was still nothing but _Castiel_ , power and light and mind; when he fought his way through the filth of the Pit, back up and out and away, and through it all he cradled close in the embrace of his wings the tiny, twisted, mewling little soul for which he had battled all of Hell to grant Salvation. It was warped and blackened by its time in torment, and yet he could see beneath the corruption that tiny, lingering spark of humanity that burned in a way that an angel does not. And as he was finally free, as he soared up to the Earth with his charge, he raised his voice and sang _Hallelujah_ , and he sailed up through the air before plunging into the earth. Beneath his angelic touch the moldering corpse formed anew, whole and complete, and then he released the soul in his hands back into its body, and he knew that once again it lived when he heard that sudden, steady heartbeat.

_Dean’s_ heartbeat.

It is Dean’s that he knew first— _Dean_ that he knows first. The Righteous Man who broke the first seal, the One who would end the Apocalypse, Michael’s True Vessel—all these names Castiel knew, and yet it seemed to take no time at all for those names to drop away like so many shedding feathers until there is only _Dean_.

He learns things while on Earth, learns that humans say that it is their eyes that are the windows into their souls, but Castiel knows better; he had seen Dean’s soul, held it in his hands, _knows_ it—and he knows that Dean’s soul is not in his eyes, but in his heartbeat. There is the slow, even, steady beat against his ribs as he sleeps when his sleep is peaceful, but when he dreams and remembers _before_ it speeds up, hard and heavy and painful and those times Castiel can’t help but wonder if it will simply batter its way out of the body that contains it. When he is awake it beats steady and strong, like Dean himself, and then there is the quick way it thumps once or twice when he looks at women, which is often, and then there are those soft, fluttering heartbeats like _wingbeats_ when he looks, _really_ looks, at his brother.

Castiel knows that the human heart is nothing but flesh and sinew, nothing but clay, and that the human soul is something more, something intangible, but as he comes to know more about them, more about _Dean_ , he can understand why for so long humans thought that their souls were in their hearts. He grasps those strange human phrases such as “heart in your throat” or “heart in your stomach” or “my heart lurched” or “my heart stopped” or even “my heart broke,” those nonsensical descriptions that have no meaning in reality but that he comes to understand mean not something that they do but rather something that they feel.

At least, he thinks he understands. But he realizes not long after that he doesn’t—at least, he _didn’t_ , not until he begins to feel too.

He is a warrior, and he does as he was told. He has fought and he has killed in the name of the LORD—but he has never fought or killed humans, _never_ humans. He knew there were angels who dispensed the wrath of GOD against the humans who defied Him, but Castiel was never one of them until suddenly he is told he must become one, and when he receives those orders he feels a horrible twisting in his middle as if his vessel’s heart had suddenly _lurched_.

It is his _vessel’s_ heart, of course, not his—he is an angel, and he has no heart. And yet, despite the fact that he does not and that his vessel’s heart no longer beat, he feels _something_ in his middle where that heart was, where his would be, when he sees Dean’s accusing look, hears the sharp staccato thudding of his heart as it beats in anger, anger towards him. It is that same twisting lurch that fights its way up into his vessel’s throat, and he opens his vessel’s mouth and speaks with its voice, his own true voice straining against it, desperate to tell Dean that he is only following orders, that it is not his choice, that he never wanted it to come to that.

He can’t tell him that when he heard that annihilation of the town was no longer required, his vessel’s heart _lurched_ again, only this time it was with his relief. He could never tell him that. He can’t even acknowledge it himself.

Yet somehow, _they_ know. He said nothing, gave no sign, and his vessel’s heart doesn’t beat, but his superiors don’t need to hear that to know that he is changing, that his sympathies are shifting, even before he realizes it himself. As he stands before them in stunned disbelief, chastised and penalized for the first time since the beginning of time, he wonders briefly and bitterly if that is why humans are GOD’s favored children—not because He wanted them to be, and certainly not because they deserve it, but because of the insidious way they twist you and turn you and in the end they force you to love them.

He tries not to feel when Dean is conscripted—doesn’t _want_ to feel—and yet he does, and it is as though his vessel’s heart drops like a stone into its stomach when he sees Dean walk through that door towards that demon. Castiel can see the flicker and the darkness of his soul in the painful thud of Dean’s heart against his ribs as he walks away.

It is when he hears the sudden, pounding terror of Dean’s heartbeat that he knows it has all gone so terribly wrong, and it is his own sudden rush of fear when he hears that heartbeat falter that keeps him fighting against the demon even when he knows that he is outmatched. He can’t help the sweeping relief he feels when Sam appears, his heart hot and racing with corruption, and he is ashamed of that relief because Sam’s demonic heartbeat is unclean, but all he cares about is that it means Dean is safe.

Sam’s heart quiets soon after; his has always been quieter than Dean’s and harder for Castiel to read, but when he turns on him in the ward of the hospital, his eyes cold and his voice hard, Castiel can hear his fury in the beat of his heart as clear as Dean’s ever was and he can say nothing, because he knows that Sam is right because Castiel has _failed_. He doesn’t know if he failed in his orders—were there even any such orders to begin with?—all he knows is that he failed _Dean_.

As he sits quietly next to Dean as he sleeps, his heartbeat steady and strong, faced with the treachery of his own kind, his own brothers, Castiel can’t help but think that maybe humans _do_ deserve to be GOD’s favored children.

It is that thought, that _feeling_ , that first moves him to do the unthinkable and to defy his orders. When he hears the angry drumbeat in Dean’s chest, when Dean turns his back on him, he feels his vessel’s heart crawl painfully upwards into its mouth once again and he speaks.

He lives in terror of discovery after that, fearful that his brothers will find out what he has done, and yet they do not. As such, when he is told that his orders and his actions were all in vain, that it was a sham in the face of a destiny foretold and that his fighting was for nothing and that he must let Dean go, he feels that horrible sinking sensation in his vessel again and he cannot do it. That feeling gives him the strength to go to Dean once more, to speak, to _act_.

Only this time, they do find out. They find out and they find him and they seize him and wrench him from his vessel, and while there is briefly a glorious moment of freedom, space to spread his arms and his wings wide, where he is himself again, only _Castiel_ with no restrictive ties the world holding him earthbound, it all comes crashing down on him when he feels a sudden rush of panic because he is without his vessel, because he is weightless and adrift—and he can no longer feel his vessel’s heart.

Then there is only the agony and the ecstasy of divine torment, of wrath and punishment and justice and he knows that he has strayed, that he was wrong, that he must atone.

When he returns and takes his vessel, first the new and then the old, their hearts do not beat.

And yet even then, they feel— _he_ feels, even though he doesn’t want to, tries not to, but he does all the same. He ignores it as best he can, which is not well at all, but he cannot let it cloud his judgment or interfere with his actions. He turns his back the painful twisting in his vessel’s chest as he betrays first Sam then his own sister and then worst of all _Dean_ , because he is an angel and he does not— _cannot_ —have a heart.

It is a different kind of agony to face Dean again after that, to lie by omission as he is held in waiting for the End. He can hear the confusion and the fury and the helplessness in his soul in the wild beating of his heart, and he feels own his anguish knotting his vessel’s heart and he wants to cry out, _Can you not see, Dean? This is not what I want! Can you not see_ me _?_ But then he remembers that no, he cannot—he can see into Dean, but Dean cannot look back because Castiel has no heartbeat.

Dean is only human, and he cannot see what he cannot feel and touch, and so Castiel’s words mean nothing. But Castiel can, and he hears Dean’s words and he hears Dean’s _soul_ and he listens. Dean speaks to his doubts and his fears and the feelings that twist his vessel’s heart, and in one shining moment, he realizes that Dean _can_ see things that he cannot feel or touch, things Castiel has never seen or understood. He knows that _he_ was the one who could not see because Dean sees with his heart and Castiel does not. He cannot, because he has no soul, no heart, but Dean does, and in it he knows, has _always_ known, why humans are GOD’s favorites, _because_ they have souls and hearts and they burn with the light and will and love of GOD Himself.

In that moment, Castiel _sees_.

And then he acts. It is easy—there are no doubts, no fears, because Dean is there and he says this is right, and so Castiel knows it must be right, that it _is_ right, because these wonderful, miraculous Children of GOD are all that matter and he would give anything and everything to save them.

So it is that he sends Dean to face his destiny, but this time on his own terms, and Castiel knows this is right, and so when he turns toward that burning, absolute light of Heaven’s wrath, he does not look away because _this is right_. For the first time, beneath the strong, steady beat of the heart of the little human standing beside him, he feels another, quieter, just a tiny flutter inside his vessel. Inside _himself_ , and just before he dies, he thinks with something between fear and wonder, _that is_ my _heart._

But then there was no heart, no _nothing_ , _he_ was nothing, because he was dead—and then suddenly he wasn’t.

He was here and alive and he was _Castiel_ and inside he swelled with something so huge and powerful that it threatened to burst from his fragile human vessel because for an instant he knew that GOD _was_ there, that GOD raised him, that GOD saved them, and his faith bore him up and out and they had _won_.

But, no, they had not. GOD might have intervened, but he had not returned, and now Lucifer was free and there was still a battle to be fought and now he did not know what to do. His faith was still there and he held it tight, but he was assailed on all sides by his doubts and his fears and his feelings and his heart.

And he does think of it as _his_ heart, even though there is another who would claim it.

He’d paid little attention to the soul to whom his vessel belonged; first because he was just a human, not an angel, and later because he was not _Dean_. When he rushed back into being and awareness, it was jarring to feel the sudden sorrow for the soul that resided with him, whose body and life and heart he had taken for his own, because now Castiel knows the wonder and the glory of these human creatures, and his shame at so carelessly tossing this one aside is acute—as is his humble gratitude at being given a chance to share his heart.

He said a prayer for Jimmy, for his soul and his sacrifice, but he did not know if anyone in Heaven would hear it because he was cut off— _cast out._

He had fallen—he had _rebelled_. At the time, it had seemed so clear and so simple, but now, isolated and alone and weakened and trapped on the Earth, the enormity of what he has done slams into him with a force more great and terrible than being smote from existence. He is alone and he has nothing, nothing but his faith—and Dean.

He clings to those two things, although at times he isn’t sure if they aren’t one and the same. But it hardly matters, because he needs an anchor, something to hold on to, to hold him down against the rushing waves and currents of all that he now feels.

His power and glory held his vessel still when he first filled it, but now he is diminished and his hold is weaker. Now, sometimes he slips, and when his feelings rise up, sometimes his human body does too. He can smell and taste things on the air that he didn’t before, and when he does, his body sometimes responds. It is too much, these sensations, and he thinks wryly that he finally knew why he was ordered to keep them reined in before—how easily an angel could be overwhelmed and induced to fall by these amazing human senses, to give into the hedonism of human flesh. Castiel does not—he is no longer receiving orders from Heaven, but he has his mission, and he cannot afford to be distracted by human physicality.

It is not merely the physical that rouses his body—it responds to what he feels, too. His jaw clenches in frustration, his brow furrows with his confusion, and the minute blood vessels in his face open wide when he is uncomfortable. But it is his heart most of all that changes with what he feels, and now he personally knows why humans believe their hearts to hold their souls. It doesn’t beat, not all the time, but sometimes when these new, frightening emotions well up, his control slips, and then it does.

They terrify him, all these strange human things that have been thrust upon him, and those on top of his own weakness and confusion. There is no longer the certainty and tranquility of Heaven—just his endless fear and doubt. He wonders how humans live with it—how they can stay so strong and upright and good in the face of their own crippling uncertainty and that they do only impresses upon him again that humans are worthy of all the devotion and love that he can give.

He is a soldier—he follows his orders. Now he has no orders, and the thought of no longer being told what to do is enough to make his human heart give a beat of fear. He did not eat of that fruit in the Garden—free will was not a gift of the angels. Before he had watched in disgust how humans misused it, how they took their gift and turned their world into a mire of suffering. Yet now he finally understands just what a perilous gift that it is, and sees that in trying to take it for themselves, it is the angels who have destroyed everything. Because now he has taken it for himself as well, and it frightens him beyond anything he has ever known. He does not want it; it is not for him, he is weak, and he just wants things to make sense again—to be told what he should do.

GOD could tell him—and so he resolves to find Him. But the Earth, which had always seemed so small from Heaven, is now staggering in its enormousness. He searches anyway, because it is direction, it is a purpose, something he otherwise lacks. He hurtles from one end of the globe to the other, searching, calling, and, in his desperation, his hold slips and he feels his heart beat. As he calls to his Father, he wonders if He too can hear it, can hear what His soldier has finally learned, hear what he has become.

But he doesn’t find out because GOD doesn’t answer. It was easy to die for his Father, but it is so hard to live for Him, because He will not tell him how.

Still he searches, but in lieu of the Word, there is still Dean, and also Sam; while they doubt and they fear, they are not paralyzed by it. They move and they work and they have simply decided to stop what they were manipulated into starting. Castiel can only watch them, and for the first time he knows what it truly is to envy—because he envies them, these little creatures that he once disdained. He envies their strength, their determination, their will—all these things and more that he can read in the strong, steady beating of their hearts. And he even envies that—those even, steady drumbeats make the occasional faltering flutter in his own chest seem so very weak in comparison.

Dean’s heart is strong, stronger—strong enough to stand in the face of the greatest of the angels and to _refuse_ him, to _defy_ him, to _mock_ him—something Castiel would have never even contemplated. And Sam’s—his heart is darker and heavier now, weighted down with the guilt of what he has done, and yet it continues to beat, never stopping, never giving up. Castiel pins his faith on those two hearts, that they will keep on beating even when his wavers, when _he_ wavers, because they are strong and courageous and will keep on fighting, keep on _beating_.

He does not doubt them, but he doubts himself. How can he not, when he is weak and lost and afraid? When he is with Dean and Sam, when he hears their powerful hearts beating, his own little heart tries to answer, to beat in return, because they are humans and they are his friends and he wants to reach out to them the only way he knows how, but his heart is quiet—it is _weak_. Yet it is his own fragile and failing heart that gives him the strength to do what Dean did, what Sam did—to refuse Lucifer himself.

When he is confronted with the fallen angel, he does not see the flesh that clothes him—how could he, when with his angelic sight he can see nothing but the fire and the power and the splendor of the Morning Star, the light and strength of home and Heaven burning from within him with such wondrous beauty that his heart trembles in awe and he nearly falls to his human knees to bow before him.

But then he remembers Dean and Sam, and he remains standing. His faith in them holds him upright when Lucifer looks upon him, when he speaks to him, when he says his name (and there is a moment of shock when he does and Castiel almost contradicts him, almost _corrects_ him, almost says his name is _Cas_ ; he doesn’t remember when he had stopped being annoyed by the mangling of his name, but when had he accepted it as his own?). And still he stands as he listens and he hears Lucifer’s words, hears his gentle persuasion, hears his offer to join him. But he hears what is behind it as well—the arrogance, the indifference, the smug contempt for his vessel, his casual surety that he will one day take Sam.

But more important is what he _doesn’t_ hear.

Lucifer has no heartbeat.

Castiel _does_. And for the first time he feels pride in that fearful, stuttering little thump in his chest, and that pride gives him the strength to _refuse_.

But then there is no pride, no feeling, no heart, for surely his finally just _stops_ and there is nothing left but a gaping emptiness and crushing desolation when GOD refuses _them_.

His faith, his purpose, his Father, and his heart— _gone._

All that he has left is Dean.

He realizes not long after that he does still have his heart when it rips him out of his numb cocoon of despair by coming alive with his rage, his burning fury when Dean betrays them, betrays _him_ , turns his back on everything that they fought for, that he died for. It hammers against the ribs of his human body and he wants to scream, _That is my heart! Can you hear it now, Dean? Can you not see me?_

And in the face of that last betrayal, when there is nothing left, he welcomes the black oblivion of banishment where there is no pain, no feeling, no Dean, and no heart.

But it was his heart that awoke him. He heard it, and he felt it, and it beat and beat and kept beating, strong and steady, and now, it did not stop.

Then everything else came rushing in, the burning heat and light and sound of being flesh and it did not stop, did not end, and he would have cried out in the pain and the terror of it, but he could not because he could not move, could not see, and the only thing he had to anchor him was the slow, steady beat of his heart.

He keeps hold of it when he finally rises up from the darkness to find himself trapped and powerless and helpless, when his body is suddenly alive with aches and pains and touch and sight and smell and every movement is a torment, but, beneath it all, there is still his heart.

And there is still _Dean’s_ heart. They had both lost their faith and Castiel had given up—but Dean had not. Still he fought, fought for humanity, for his brother, for _him_ , and Castiel was humbled for he had doubted and he had despaired, but Dean was still there, still strong and sure and magnificent and human.

Castiel is not strong or sure, and so he cannot be human, but what is he now? He is hardly an angel, hardly even himself any longer, and he wonders if perhaps all of him that had once been _Castiel_ has finally been burned away and now all that is left is _Cas_ and the steady beating of his human heart.

It is little surprise then, when he feels it hitch and stutter in his chest that he falls to his knees, stricken with paralyzing fear, and he thinks _is it not working? Is it_ breaking _? Is my heart breaking?!_ And it is the thought and the threat of the loss of his heartbeat, that one remaining constant in this unfamiliar form, that helps him find the strength to overcome his fear and his pain and launch himself at the smug, mocking face of the Horseman and take back his heartbeat.

He remembers later, though, that when humans say their hearts are breaking, it isn’t what they do, it is what they feel. When the black despair of defeat crashes down upon him, when he knows that GOD is gone and _Sam_ is gone and that they have _failed_ , he thinks that surely then, that is his heart breaking.

But he does not _know_ until he gets the sudden, unexpected phone call from the human prophet who tells them where Dean has gone and he and Bobby race to his side and he sees Dean, standing tall and sure and defiant and trying so hard to speak to his brother, and even in his fear and despair, his heart beats steady and strong—but Sam’s _doesn’t_. Then, and only then, does Castiel _know_ his heart is breaking.

And it is in that moment that he gathers every inch of his human body, of his magnificent human heart, and he stands and faces down the two greatest of the angels—he _defies_ them, and he _mocks_ them—all for _Dean_.

When Lucifer turns to him, all light and hate and cold fire, he can see the murder looking out from Sam’s eyes, and even though his heart no longer beats, Castiel’s _does_ , strong and steady, like Dean’s, and right before he dies, he thinks with defiance and pride, _that is my heart._

And then there was no heart, no _nothing_ , _he_ was nothing, because he was dead—but then suddenly he wasn’t.

He is here and alive and he is _Castiel_ , an Angel of the LORD, and his faith roars up from inside him so huge and glorious that only his glorious human heart can contain it, because he knows that GOD _is_ there, that GOD raised him, that GOD saved them, and they have _won_.

Dean does not see because it was not something that he could feel or touch, but Castiel reminds him that he is human and that he must not look with his eyes but with his heart, because then he will _see_ , and he will know then that GOD was there all along.

Then he left the Earth and returned to Heaven—Heaven, not _home_ , because he knew in his human heart that his true home would be, would _always_ be, on the Earth in the hearts of the Children of GOD, as, he at last understands, GOD had always intended it to be.

He leaves his vessel, bursting forth in celestial light and glory and he spreads his arms and his wings wide and this time there is no fear. He is not adrift because he looks down at himself and sees the way his light and power and mind all radiate outward from that single burning point, and though there is no beat in his center he can look at it with joy and think _that is my heart_.

He carefully tucks his human body away, somewhere safe. It was a crawlspace when he first filled it, and then a prison when he was trapped inside it, but now it is the agent of his own divine transformation into what GOD surely wanted His messengers to be, and so he cannot help but regard it with both fondness and reverence—most of all for his human heart. He does not put it to rest, merely keeps it safe, just in case one day he needs it—in case _Dean_ needs it.

He is finally free, and as he soars up from the Earth and into Heaven, he raises his voice and sings _Hallelujah_. He plunges into the Pit and brings Sam back, even though even that meager recompense can never compare to the great service they have done for him. He returns to his brothers bringing the Word that GOD had not forgotten them, GOD had not abandoned them, that GOD was there and all around them burning bright in the hearts of humanity, and that to serve them is to serve GOD.

But they do not hear him—they cannot hear him. He can only stare at them in numb disbelief, these small and limited creatures that are his brothers, who he can no longer understand. The once-united choir of Heaven is now a discordant maelstrom of confusion and fury, and anguish knots his angelic heart and he cries out, _Can you not see?_ But he knows that no, they cannot. They are only angels, and they can only see what they can feel and touch, because they have no hearts.

His angelic heart is not enough for them, and even as he ruthlessly takes advantage of their loss and need for purpose and direction, as he defies the last of the archangels and kills his own brethren in the name of the LORD, as he makes underhanded bargains in the name of protecting Dean, he _aches_ for his human heart and the slow steady beat that once filled his mind and sang with the will of GOD. He still _feels_ , even without it, although at times he resentfully wishes that he did not have a heart, that he could not feel the anguish and remorse of what he does. But he knows that in the end he will take the pain and the guilt and even his brothers as they are, because those are the things worth fighting for.

When he hears his name, hears _Dean_ call his name, he is an angel, and so he has no heartbeat. When his voice can no longer be ignored (he never _wanted_ to ignore it, not his or Sam’s, and it hurt him so terribly to do so that to finally answer is a joy and a relief), he returns to his human body because Dean needs it. There is a rush of feeling, of the familiar sensations of shape and form, of flesh and sinew, and he cannot help but think of that strange human saying of being uncomfortable in one’s own skin. But he is not human; he is an angel, and so perhaps it is fitting that he has turned that phrase upside down as he realizes just how uncomfortable he was _out_ of his own skin.

He is an angel, a servant of Heaven, and once again his power and glory hold his body still when he fills it. It does not grow, it does not change, it does not feel.

His heart does not beat.

It is painful to feel that stillness in his human chest. In becoming human, he had gained a heart. In returning to Grace, he has lost part of it. He wonders, when this is all over, for better or worse, if there will even be enough of it left to make his human heart beat again.

He wings his way down, leaving the madness and confusion of Heaven behind, streaking through the atmosphere towards the sound of his name, of that voice, of _Dean’s_ voice. A strange sort of excitement fills him at the thought of it because he is going home, to Earth and with humans and with Sam and with Dean, and then he is there and he sees them, he feels them, and he hears their hearts, and he is _home_ , and he knows _this is my heart._

Dean looks up, and he stares, and he _sees_.

Castiel’s heart beat.


	5. Dazed and Confused

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That first morning after from Dean’s POV.

The sun was up, but the light was a pale, watery grey as it filtered through the overcast sky Dean could see out of the window from where he sat. Heaving a sigh, he reached forward, took another swig from the glass next to him, and then set it back right next to the mostly-empty bottle before returning to his list.

_Melanie Franklin._

Oh yeah, he remembered her. He’d been twenty-four and had given the poltergeist in her house a very firm and permanent eviction. She’d been very grateful and had thanked him for it in all kinds of interesting ways. The most interesting one had definitely been that _thing_ she did with her tongue.

He closed his eyes for a moment. _Judith Masterson and her friend Susan Dyers._ Jesus Christ, he was gonna get hard just thinkin’ about that one. They’d told him to just sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride and had he _ever_.

 _Theresa Webber._ Mile-long legs and all black leather and teasing—given his line of work, he wasn’t normally one for being tied up, but even without restraints she’d shown him all new forms of domination that he’d never even imagined. Definitely a winner.

He drew in a breath through his nose, his hand gripping the glass tighter. He took another drink, and then steeled himself.

_Cas._

Dean’s head jerked involuntarily to the side when his mind immediately and ( _goddammit_ ) _eagerly_ jumped to—to _then_ , and there was that damn prickly warm feeling in his gut and that quick thump in his chest—

_Shit!_

He wished he wasn’t half-drunk now, because the whiskey didn’t burn as much anymore going down, and that sharp sensation would’ve snapped him back to reality and maybe some _sense_.

That was the fifth time. _Fifth._ Every single time, _that_ happened. He—he didn’t even _know_ how many women he’d been with, even though he remembered pretty much every one of them. And he’d _been_ remembering them all night, and he’d been _enjoying_ it! He’d even considered thinking about the ones that hurt the most—the ones that he’d not wanted to leave—just to see if the same thing would happen. But he didn’t, because not only did he not want to feel the familiar ache he always got when he thought too much about those few women, but he didn’t know what he’d do if…

He took another drink. The second bottle was still closed and on the table next to the first one, but if he kept this up, he’d probably be cracking it open shortly. He was frankly impressed he’d managed to draw the first one out all night. He supposed all of his pacing he’d done had had something to do with that.

It didn’t make any sense. Not one bit of this made any sense _at all_. Seventeen years of satisfying sex under his belt, and he’d not once wanted to—to go chase a _guy_. But more importantly, he _still_ didn’t want to! He hadn’t just been thinking of women all night, oh no—he’d halfheartedly tried thinking about a few men that he knew chicks thought were sexy these days, and just the idea of getting it on with _them_ was enough to make him shrivel up like a spider on a hot stove. He’d even tried imagining men that he’d admitted in the past to having a man-crush on: Robert Plant, young and in his prime, on stage singing “Travelin’ Riverside Blues” and working the crowd, and—nope. Not happening. Not even then. He’d kiss his feet, sure, but no way in hell he’d kiss his mouth, ‘cause he was a friggin’ _dude_.

And all of that added up to him doing what he’d done upstairs _how_?

He got up, agitated and jittery, and started pacing again. He supposed he should be tired—he hadn’t slept at all that he knew of, not really, aside from the couple of times at the kitchen table that he’d dozed off for ten or twenty minutes at a stretch. But he didn’t want to sleep—not until things started to make _sense_ again, until he got himself back to that point where he knew what he liked and things were normal and it didn’t involve making out with _that fucking angel_!

 _Winchester, do_ not _put those two words that close to each other in the same damn sentence_ , his brain snarled at him.

Dean spun on his heel after just a few circles of the library before returning to the kitchen and the bottle. He glared down at his empty glass before snatching it and pouring another shot of whiskey into it. But this time he went back to sipping at it, like he had been for most of the night. _Keep it slow, Winchester._ He didn’t want to be really drunk. He didn’t want to be drunk because he sometimes did crazy things when he was drunk, and so it was a really bad idea to be drunk within five-hundred yards of—

 _No._ Dean refused to finish the thought.

Heaving a sigh, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together.

Okay. So he didn’t want to be drunk, and he didn’t want…dudes. So what _did_ he want?

Oh, he knew what he wanted—he wanted to go upstairs and kick Cas’s ass in about ten ways from Sunday, because this was all his fucking fault.

He’d grabbed and tipped back the glass before he even realized it, drinking every bit of what was left in one go. He filled it up again but didn’t drink it immediately; instead, he just sat it down on the table in front of him, regarding it sullenly.

“Bit early, isn’t it?”

The string of obscenities that nearly escaped him was quite impressive, if he did say so himself, to the point that Dean was almost sorry he hadn’t let them loose. He glared over his shoulder at Sam, and he was on the verge of telling the bastard to stop sneaking up on him like that when he looked at him— _really_ looked, and Sam just looked back.

 _Oh,_ fuck _me._

He’d forgotten. Sam had seen. They’d _both_ seen. And they _knew_.

He’d spent so much time thinking about women all night, he’d forgotten to think about Sam and Bobby.

Dean despised the heat he felt crawling up out of his collar, made worse because he knew Sam could see it, so he just glared hard at the fridge. Sam was moving to sit right across from him (sat right across from him and _smirked_ at him, the bitch), but Dean refused to look at him, and he certainly wasn’t going to talk. No, he wasn’t going to give Sam that pleasure. He could stare at him all he wanted—

“So,” Sam said casually, “how is he?”

 _Oh, you little prick, I should break this bottle over your fucking head!_ Of course he’d just start right in on it, and in that patented passhole-aggresshole Sam Winchester fashion. He tried to give him a shut-up-if-you-don’t-want-your-face-broken glare, but the way Sam’s eyebrow was raised—dammit. Dean quickly went back to looking at the table instead.

“He’s—” _I am going to kill you, Sam, and I’m gonna do it slow._ “Uh, he’s fine.” Well, maybe that was too strong a word for it. “Ish,” he added. “I guess.” And what the hell did Sam care, anyway? What, did he think he didn’t take care of him last night?

 _No_ , that nasty voice in his head sneered, _he thinks you took real_ good _care of him._

And almost as if Sam read his mind, he spoke again. “This going to be permanent?”

Dean’s head shot up, and that was it—he was going to let that asshole _have it_ —

“This de-powered thing?” Sam added that on fast, but it was hardly reassuring. Just the opposite, actually—so he was gonna _play_ with him, this was all a _game_. Oh, wasn’t that just his speed—ask a whole lot of misleading questions without ever asking what he really wanted to know and just waiting for Dean to blurt it out himself, and then Sam and Bobby would go off and laugh at him.

But Sam wasn’t finished—he was still talking. “He’s just gonna be one of us for good now?” he asked, his fingers drumming lightly against the table.

“How the hell should I know?” Dean snarled in return. What, did Sam figure that, because he and Cas were obviously all—that he just knew all about what was going on? Why did everyone always look at him when it came to Cas?!

Sam just kept feigning nonchalance. “You were the one who talked to Death and then faced Cas down —” _You_ dick _!_ “I just thought you might know something we didn’t.”

 _Oh, I’ll bet you did._ Jesus Christ, he’d had all _night_ to dream up all kinds of shit about him…

“Yeah, well,” Dean growled, “I _don’t_!” They were _always_ asking him. They needed to put in a call to Cas? He’s the one who had to do it. Cas got hurt? They ask Dean if he’s gonna be okay. Cas started making deals with fucking devils? They ask Dean what to do about it. Cas went nuts and tried to destroy the world? They asked Dean to go fix it. And now they were asking again, only this time it was different because it was _worse_ —

“Quit _staring_ at me!” he shouted. He could see Sam out of the corner of his eye, just sitting there and _looking_ at him, thinking God knew what—why wouldn’t people stop fucking _looking_ at him?!—so he abruptly swung his head around so that the little prick could just look him in the eye like a man just in time to see Sam’s eyebrows go up as he blinked at him, and Dean had to go back to staring at the tabletop.

There was a pause. “I’m not?” Sam said, acting all innocent, the liar—was he actually going to try that, as if Dean _hadn’t_ felt his beady little eyes on him this whole time?

Sam didn’t say anything else, which left nothing but that horrible, tense silence between them and Dean couldn’t _stand_ it—he couldn’t stand just having Sam sit there making all kinds of sick assumptions and _looking_ at him and—

“Well, then don’t just sit there!” he barked. “ _Say_ something, dammit!” He glared at Sam full-on as he said it, and just seeing his face was enough to get him on his feet, all but kicking his chair back and turning away to fume helplessly out the window, because he really didn’t want to hear anything Sam had to say about him, but he couldn’t stand the judgy silence, either!

Dean was so preoccupied thinking of all the ways to tell the world at large that it could go to hell that he almost didn’t hear when Sam started talking again. “What do you want me to say, Dean?” he said, with that stupid _patronizing_ patience, and Dean had a good mind to start whaling on him for it.

He kept staring out the window. _Oh, I don’t know_ , he thought snidely to himself. _How about anything but_ that _?_ Maybe Sam could say how awesome he was for saving the goddamn world last night, or maybe say how nice it was that they were all alive, but no, he just wanted to talk about _gay_ , but he knew Dean would throw him out the window if he was the one to bring it up, so he waited around for _Dean_ to do it, the little shit.

So he skipped all of that and settled for just telling Sam to stop with his stupid fucking _needling_. “I want you to quit pretending like—” The words caught in his throat, but he swallowed and sucked in a breath. “Like you—like you didn’t _see_ that,” he snarled, “last night.”

 _There. Happy now?_ he growled internally. The little pissant never would just come out and say what he wanted it, no, Sam always had to pick and tease and hint until Dean finally just did it for him, so now—

“I’m not pretending anything,” Sam shrugged. “I saw.”

Dean’s jaw tightened, his fists clenching. “And?” he ground out. _Jesus, for once can’t_ you _just say it, Sammy? Why does it always have to be_ me _?!_

“And…” Dean sucked in a breath at Sam’s voice, barely aware that he was even holding it, waiting for what he knew was coming.

He heard Sam shift in his seat. “Nothing,” he finished simply.

Fury exploded in Dean’s midsection. That rotten bastard sat there and stared at him and made him say all of that and then _that was all he had to say_?!

“ _No!_ ” he bellowed, whipping around only to see Sam with that exact same patient expression plastered all over his face. “It’s not _nothing_! I’m—”

But he couldn’t even say what he was, because he didn’t _know_ what he was, didn’t know what any of this was, so he couldn’t even properly give Sam what for for assuming whatever he was assuming about it.

“Son of a _bitch_!” he shouted, going back to staring out the window, because anything was better than having to look his brother in the eye.

This was _obscene_. This was ridiculous, it was infuriating, it was embarrassing, and he just—he didn’t know what he wanted (except to kill Cas—and Sam too, while he was at it). All he wanted was _sense_ and _reason_ , but nope, he couldn’t have that, because he was Dean Winchester, and Dean Winchester couldn’t have fucking _anything_!

They were both still silent, the only noise in the kitchen coming from the dripping sink. Dean just glowered out at the overcast sky and did his best to ignore the eyes he could feel on him.

“Dean,” Sam finally sighed, and Dean’s back went rigid because he knew that tone, “I really don’t see what the problem is.”

Dean whirled back around fast; he wasn’t gonna let Sam get away with that one, ‘cause now he was just being an idiot. “Really?” Dean demanded sardonically. “You don’t see the problem?” Sam just minutely shrugged at him, obviously about to talk again, so Dean spoke over him. “Well, I do,” he snarled. He struggled for a moment, and then everything that was wrong with the whole _world_ right now just burst out of him with: “I like _pussy_ , goddammit!”

It didn’t really matter that even he thought that sounded pretty stupid; what mattered is that he _saw that_ —he saw the way Sam’s face went wooden and overly-serious like it always did when he was holding back laughter. He hoped Sam was thanking his lucky stars right now because if he _had_ actually laughed, Dean would have relocated his pointy nose to the other side of his head. As it was, he was considering doing it anyway just on general principle.

They sat for a few moments, Sam staying quiet and composed while Dean quivered with outrage until finally, Sam nodded a few times at him, his eyes on the table. “Okay, that’s fine,” he said deliberately. “That’s great. You like pussy.” Sam looked up, and for one long second, they stared at each other, Sam holding his gaze like no one else could, _making_ him look at him. “And you like Cas.”

Thinking back on it later, Dean still wasn’t all that sure which part had stunned him more—the fact that Sam had just come out and _said_ that…or the fact that he was _right_.

He just stood there, frozen in blank confusion. Part of him was royally pissed, because _that_ was not something Sam could just say—that was not something _anyone_ could say out loud. But the other part was just completely flabbergasted.

_You like pussy. And you like Cas._

He didn’t like dudes. He liked women. He still liked women. He hadn’t spontaneously decided to start batting for the other team.

But he…liked… _Cas._

How did that even _work_? Was it even possible?

 _Well, clearly_ , came the immediate response in his head. Because he loved sex with beautiful women—and he—he _liked_ Cas. Just thinking about him now, he felt that warm, wistful feeling that he always felt when he thought about his _real_ old flames. He—he fucking _liked Cas_. Just like Sam had said.

_Dammit._

It didn’t make sense, except for how it did, and Dean hated it. He stared out the window without seeing anything outside before turning back to Sam. “And—what?” he growled, tossing a hand up in irritation. “That’s it?” he demanded. Because there was no way that could be it. It was impossible for that to be it, not with how—how fucking _sudden_ this was, and God, that always sounded so stupid in the movies and it sounded just as stupid here. He glowered at his brother. “That’s all you have to say?”

Sam was looking exasperated. “Dean,” he sighed, “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

 _Well, I didn’t want you to say what you_ did _say_ , Dean thought irritably.

Sam was still talking. “You want me to try and talk you out of it?” he asked dryly. Before Dean could say that perhaps that might be a good idea, he kept going. “To give you some Chick Tracts? Or—” He flapped a hand, obviously casting about, and of all things he finally decided on: “Or light some candles so we can pray to the Mother Goddess?”

Dean could not believe his brother had just said that, and he knew his face made his feelings quite clear on it. _Oh, I think we know who’s the queermo, here, Sammy._ Sam clearly saw his reaction, but he just flapped at him again. “It sounds like you’re the one having trouble, Dean,” he said.

The words about how _no shit_ he was having trouble were in his throat when Sam spoke again. “I’m fine with it,” he shrugged. “Really.”

Dean worked his jaw for a moment. “How in the hell are you just ‘fine with it’, Sammy?” he ground out. This was not something to be fine with! It was _weird_ and it was all _wrong_ and it didn’t make any fucking sense and—and goddammit, it was _Cas_!

But that little punk just rolled his eyes and drawled, “Dean, did you forget that I went to college in Stanford? In San Francisco, California? America’s Bowl of Granola? The Pride Lands?” Dean knew exactly where he was going with this and was already bristling when he continued. “Dude, half the population of that place was so flamingly gay that they made Liberace look subtle.”

Dean was halfway through the step that would get him well on his way to his fist making contact with Sammy’s face for using _that word_ , but Sam completely ignored him and just kept talking, which kept him in his spot. “After living there for four years,” he said, “believe me, I’m not going to be bothered by what you do on your own time with one guy.” Dean flailed a little, trying to figure out some way to refute that accusation, because dammit, they didn’t do _anything_ —except they kinda _had_ , but— _dammit!_

Sam was still going on. “Who, if you think about it,” he mused, in what was obviously supposed to be a reassuring tone, “since he was an angel? May not technically be a ‘guy’ anyway.”

Dean threw a scornful look at Sam. “The hell he’s _not_ —” he sneered derisively, because what kind of a comfort was _that_ supposed to be—

—and then he realized exactly what he’d just said and what it sounded like and Sam was looking all grossed out and Dean felt his face go hot and he couldn’t look at him again.

“Okay,” Sam said delicately as Dean flumped back into his chair and tried to will the blood to leak back out of his face. “See? Now _that_ was too much information, Dean.”

 _Fuck you_ , he thought sullenly to himself. He saw Sam messing around on the table and with his whiskey out of the corner of his eye, but didn’t pay much attention to him because he was far too busy trying to figure out how things had been so very uncomplicated twelve hours ago—and that wasn’t fair because twelve hours ago he’d been marching forward with the sole intention to make Cas _kill him_ and thinking that neither one of them were gonna survive the explosion.

Of course, when had things ever been simple with that little feathery twerp? But did he have to drag _him_ into all of his ridiculous complications?! Well, yes, of course he did, because that was his _hobby_. He’d dragged him into everything else before this, so why _not_ suddenly make Dean feel—like he _liked_ him now?

Movement across from him made him look up again; Sam had a glass of whiskey and was pointing it at him. “Seriously, though, whatever you want to do is your business,” he said simply, raising his drink to his lips. “Just so long as you _keep_ it your business.” Sam smirked at him over the rim of his glass. “For a change.”

Dean eyed him sourly. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

Sam stared at him like he was an idiot. “Uh, maybe that you’re an exhibitionist along with being a voyeur?”

Dean spluttered indignantly, which only made Sam’s bitchy little smirk get wider. “Don’t try to deny it,” he said smugly. “I’ve seen more of you than I have ever wanted to, and in positions that give me worse nightmares than Lucifer ever managed. Sometimes, I think I’ve seen more of your sex life than my own.”

The only reason for that was because Sam didn’t _have_ a sex life, and Dean was gonna tell him so, right after he defended his own honor. “That’s bullshit. Name one time you’ve seen me,” he demanded.

Sam just laughed in his face. “ _One?_ ” he crowed. “Is that all?”

Dean was rather irritated to learn that was apparently not quite as circumspect in his dalliances as he’d thought (and that his brother was a Peeping Tom). He was at least somewhat vindicated to find out that Jenn Morris’s rat-faced little brother had in fact needed to be whacked upside the head a few times, and he was now very sorry he hadn’t given into his urge to do so back when he’d had the chance. But really, at this point, all he wanted to do was whack his _own_ rat-faced little brother upside the head a few times, if for no other reason than to wipe that smug grin off his face—because his ass was _not_ pasty, thank you very much.

He tensed a little when Sam’s expression suddenly softened a little and he leaned forward, setting his empty glass down deliberately in front of them. “Dean, we’ve seen what the end of the world is like,” he said. He paused, smiling a bit. “And this isn’t it.”

 _Easy for you to say, you’re not the one who_ —Dean dropped his gaze, his face heating up again, and looked down at his hands clasped between his knees. Sam didn’t continue, just sat there rattling his empty glass on the tabletop, which left Dean with nothing to do but ponder his situation.

Situation indeed. He was angry, frustrated, grossed out, embarrassed, confused, and still wanted to kick Cas’s ass for all this. He hated that Bobby and Sam _knew_ , had _seen_ that…last night (the one time Dean most emphatically wished he had _not_ been caught, of course). And he still wasn’t sure how it worked, that he could go for all of his life enjoying the company of women and enjoying the _bodies_ of women and even having a few serious relationships with women, and yet somehow wind up… _liking_ …Cas.

But Sam was right.

Either way, he did… _like_ Cas.

And…it _wasn’t_ the end of the world.

Sure felt like it, though.

He managed to look back up at his brother, who was regarding him with steady patience, who hadn’t laughed at him once. “Then…” He licked his lips. “That’s it?”

“Don’t see why not,” Sam shrugged, and Dean couldn’t quite understand how he could see it that way, but all he could do was try. Sam’s mouth twisted a little. “It’s…kinda weird, maybe,” he added.

 _Weird does not even begin to describe this, Sammy_ , Dean thought wryly, considering having another drink just from thinking too much about it. He glanced up when Sam spoke again. “But it’s not gonna send me screaming into the night or anything.” Sam stared at him, that look he always got when he wanted Dean to listen to him—to _really_ listen. “You’re still my brother.”

It really was quite frustrating (and _very_ awkward—and embarrassing) that Dean only just now realized how much he had been afraid of his brother’s mockery and condemnation until he went and said something like that. Damn that little squirt, anyway.

“Besides,” Sam suddenly said, “not to, ah… _belittle_ your accomplishment or anything—” Dean scowled horribly at the tabletop, “—but I think I’ve got you beat.” When he looked back up at Sammy, he was smirking again. “I still say I’ve shacked up with much, _much_ worse than you ever have.”

Okay, that got him. He snorted once, and then gave in and reached over for the last of his drink. After draining it, he went back to staring out the window.

All he’d wanted were sense and reason—he hadn’t really gotten either, but he supposed what he did have was close enough.

He could live with that.

Glancing furtively over at Sammy, he saw his little brother just sitting across from him looking completely at ease with everything, as if everything they’d just talked over was the most normal thing on the planet, and so said the only thing he could: “Thanks, Sammy.”

And his brother just smiled at him, said, “No problem,” and left it at that.

The moment broke when Bobby suddenly appeared out of nowhere, as he usually did, the sneaky bastard. He just nodded at Sam, but then gave Dean a speculative look that he didn’t like one bit.

“You two finally get yourselves sorted out?” he said bluntly, and Dean nearly choked while Sam just laughed at him before inviting Bobby over for a drink. He glared ineffectually at the old turd, doubly furious that he couldn’t think of any kind of snappy retort.

Unfortunately, it only got worse when he declined Sam’s offer, saying he’d already gotten a head start on his liver-pickling in the basement.

“Oh—I thought you were still asleep,” Sam replied.

Bobby just rolled his eyes and jerked his head at Dean. “Are you kidding?” he scoffed, and Dean knew what he was going to say one second before he said it but even knowing couldn’t prepare him for it: “Ain’t nobody sleeping on that side of the house tonight, not with all that screamin’ goin’ on.”

And then Sam just _encouraged_ him, snorting and adding his two cents worth, and Dean was just frozen, his face burning so hot he thought it might’ve caught on fire, because that _wasn’t fucking funny_! He couldn’t decide if he wanted to start shouting at them or start throwing punches or maybe just run away—and he wasn’t above running away, either, ‘cause if he punched them, the two sorry sons of bitches would just take it as confirmation, but he couldn’t yell at them and deny it, either, because they _hadn’t_ been just talking, oh no, because Cas had gotten all touchy-feely and—

“Oh,” Sam said quietly. “Hey, Cas.”

Oh, _shit_. Now the funhouse of horror was complete. Dean felt his spine go rigid the same time his stomach clenched, and even though he _so_ didn’t want to, he couldn’t help it—he looked, just like the other two did.

And there he was. Bobby must’ve done laundry in the night, because Cas was dressed in his dorky suit and trench coat again, and they were no longer splattered with mud and blood even though they were ragged and torn now. He didn’t have the angelic dry-cleaning and instant repair services anymore, after all, and apparently taking a cosmic plunger to him and uncorking all those souls had been a lot rougher on him than just banishing himself to Louisiana. Some dim part of Dean’s brain knew they’d eventually have to get Cas some new clothes at some point, and that same part of him adamantly refused to be the one to do it.

“Hello,” Cas mumbled, staring pitifully at the floor between the occasional timid glances up at everyone there.

“Come have a seat?” Sam said, and Dean could tell he was forcing his voice to sound casual, and he didn’t know if he should be grateful on Cas’s behalf or pissed on his own.

Dean looked away but still listened to Cas come shuffling into the room; Dean was now very thankful that Bobby had decided to sit next to him, because that meant that Cas couldn’t. He stared very studiously into his glass at the few dregs of whiskey in the bottom as Cas pulled out a chair with a loud scrape and sat down, saying nothing. Dean didn’t know what Cas was doing in the uncomfortable silence, and he really didn’t care so long as he wasn’t _looking_ at him again.

“You okay, kid?” That was Bobby; his voice was rough and cautious and still a bit closed, but the words were friendly enough all the same.

“I—” Dean stared even harder at his glass when Cas finally spoke, sounding tired and small and the sound of it made his heart clench. There was silence for a moment, and then he finally finished his sentence. “I am…getting by.”

He wasn’t kidding—he was gonna kill Cas.

He ignored Sam’s reassurances to the ex-angel, just kept staring forcefully at the table because the table didn’t have any feelings for him. The table didn’t sigh soppily at him and think he was the most wonderful thing in the world. The table didn’t hang all over him and try to cuddle with him. The table didn’t kiss him.

The table wasn’t _staring_ at him.

He knew he was. He _knew_ Cas was staring at him, and this wasn’t a figment of his imagination because he could feel it— _really_ feel it this time. He could always feel Cas’s gaze, because it made him itch and made him edgy. And he could tell it was _that_ gaze, the one he’d given him all night last night, and _goddammit_ , where did he get off doing that in front of Sammy and Bobby?! They’d already gotten enough ideas; Cas didn’t need to go give them more!

Sucking in a breath, he steeled himself and glanced up—and looked right at Cas, meeting his eyes immediately. Yep, he was doing it again, and it was awful and obvious and everyone could see it and for the love of God, why did his gut have to twist like that?

“Breakfast?” Bobby suddenly said, nearly making Dean leap out of his seat. But at least it gave him an excuse to stop looking at Cas—not that it mattered; Cas glanced furtively over at Bobby the moment he spoke.

“Sounds good,” Sam agreed. He nudged Cas with his elbow. “You’re probably starving.”

Dean didn’t wait around for Cas’s answer, instead rising to his feet and coughing uncomfortably. “I’m not,” he said a little too loudly. “I, uh—I’m gonna go out. Work on the car.”

He felt like an idiot, but didn’t bother waiting for anybody to talk to him and just went charging out of the kitchen, keeping his head down and his gaze away from everyone else—and quickening his pace at the prickling feeling between his shoulder blades that could only be the pressure of an intense stare on his back as he left.

Seriously. Kill him _a lot_.


	6. Nothing Ever Goes as Planned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean goes to talk to Cas, armed with his advice from Sam—only things don’t quite play out as he’d intended.

Since he hadn’t had anything to drink since breakfast, Dean didn’t feel bad about having a beer with his late dinner despite his silent vow to himself not to get even the slightest bit buzzed tonight. He’d had plenty of time to sober up all day, so one beer wasn’t going to hurt anything.

Settling down at the table, he poked at the plate in front of him; Sam had saved him some dinner—as well as lunch and breakfast earlier, seeing as he hadn’t eaten when the rest of them had at all today. And from what he’d gathered from the couple of times he’d spoken with Sam, it was a good thing he had set aside a plate for him: Cas apparently ate pretty much like a dog and Bobby was already complaining about the little dude’s insatiable appetite. Well, that’s what Cas got for not eating for years at a time. You’d think he’d have gotten used to eating and how awesome it was in the two or three days he’d been human before, but Dean figured he’d just forgotten and they were going to have to go through that all over again.

If anything, though, Dean was relieved that he could even think about Cas at all and not immediately want to change the mental subject.

Dean had not been lying when he’d said he was going to work on the car. He’d worked on it all morning, actually, only pausing once to sneak inside and make off with the bowl of beans Sam had left for him. Once he was done with the car, he’d done the same thing for lunch, zipping in to grab a sandwich or two, hopefully without anyone noticing him. Hadn’t been entirely successful, though, because Sam had managed to catch him. Fortunately, they’d only shared a few words before he’d made his escape, leaving him free to skulk around Bobby’s junkyard until dinner. Unfortunately, the last time he’d gone inside to find something to eat, he had turned right back around again because _he’d_ been still sitting at the table and still _staring_. Dean had gone back out as fast as he’d come in, so Cas hadn’t had a chance to speak to him, and he certainly hadn’t spoken to Cas.

He’d felt like an idiot, hiding outside all day, but at least no one had bothered him—and he’d gotten in a nice nap out in the Impala, which he’d needed after last night (he furiously struck a mental line through that thought the minute he thought it, heat crawling up his face at just the _idea_ of what Sam would have said). So now he was awake, hungry but not hungry, and not entirely sure what to do next.

He knew Cas was upstairs in what was _supposed_ to be _his_ room—leave it to those dicks to put the guy in there. There were plenty of couches and spare rooms and _floors_ where they could have stuck him, but no, they had to give him _Dean’s_ room. That was just like them—Cas goes on a soul-bender and tries to kill them all and they give him his own room. Dean saves the whole planet and they make him sleep on the floor.

Unless, of course, they were _implying_ something…

Scowling, he ate a few bites of cold spaghetti with more force than necessary.

No. They weren’t implying anything and he knew it. Well, most of him knew it. And anyway, he didn’t care if they were! Because he knew the truth. Let ‘em speculate and get it all wrong. He’d kick their asses for it later. Bastards.

Dean grimaced, swallowing and pushing the plate away from him. His mood was whipsawing worse than if he’d been a chick on the rag, and he knew it. But he didn’t really care, because he was too busy trying to wrestle his two halves into some kind of agreement—half of him wanted to stay downstairs, and the other half (the _sissy_ half—which was the _smaller_ half, thank you very much) kept _insisting_ that it would be best to go upstairs and hash things out now and get it over with, but what the hell was he supposed to _say_?!

Scooting away from the table and leaving his half-full beer and half-empty plate for Bobby to clean up later, he glared at the stairs for a moment before trudging into the living room to sit quietly for a few—a plan that was quickly derailed because Sam was already there, passed out on the couch, and when Sam was passed out on a couch there was no room for anyone else. How the hell had he not seen him sprawled out there when he came in, anyway? He stared at his little brother for a moment before he wandered aimlessly out of the room, not really knowing he had a destination in mind until he was already halfway down the stairs to the basement. The door to the panic room was open and a quick peek inside revealed that Dean’s sneaking suspicion was right—Bobby was in there, but he wasn’t awake. He’d fallen asleep on the cot with a book, the bottle of booze on the floor next to him capped for the night.

So, they had him all nice and hemmed in, and that left only two options. Dean could join them—just find himself a nice patch on the library floor. He’d done it before, and sleep did sound nice even though he’d had a nap.

Or he could go upstairs. _All_ the way upstairs.

 _Or I could just go get a root canal without any Novocain_ , he groused even as he began his slow and steady and _stalling_ ascent. He turned when he hit the top, hating how every creak sounded like thunder; just because Bobby and Sam were asleep didn’t mean they wouldn’t wake up, and that just wasn’t acceptable—doubly so ‘cause they’d just fake still being asleep so they could eavesdrop. Bad enough Bobby had heard some of his ranting and raving last night. He didn’t want anyone hearing his ranting and raving tonight, either—and if he really did go up there, he was sure there would be.

Dean paused once he hit the door that was supposed to be his but was now pretty much Cas’s because that’s just how Cas was—didn’t matter if he was angel or human, he was still the unstoppable glacier, butting in on Dean’s life and making everything that was once Dean’s business his own business because he just _had_ to be in _someone’s_ business and that someone was always _Dean_. He glared at the chipped wood of the door and then, because there was simply nothing else for it, knocked twice.

The delay between Dean knocking and Cas opening the door was simultaneously far too long and way too short. It was just delaying the inevitable, but if he didn’t answer that meant Dean could bug out of here without having to see him. But then the doorknob rattled and the door swung wide and he—

It took every ounce of Dean’s willpower to not burst into hysterical laughter at the sight of Cas being eaten by Dean’s own faded Led Zeppelin shirt, his skinny legs poking out of what were supposed to be a pair of shorts but on him were so enormous that they looked more like a skirt. Clearing his throat and trying to keep his lips from trembling, he waved a hand at the ridiculous ensemble. “Uh—Sam set you up with that?”

Cas just nodded. “Yes,” he said, looking down. “The shorts he gave me first kept falling off,” he added quietly, “so he said I could have these that were his.”

Well, that sobered him up— _Sammy, you are gonna wake up with your head shaved for that_ , he growled internally, because who gave Sam permission to give Cas _his_ clothes? Shaking off the rather unpleasant idea that there was now a chance he was gonna put on a pair of shorts that _Cas_ had previously worn for however little time, he coughed again. “Okay. Uh…” He glanced off to the side. “Were you asleep?” he asked, feeling stupid. Again.

“No,” Cas replied.

“Were you trying to sleep?”

“No.”

“…Were you planning on sleeping any time soon?”

“No.”

 _Dammit._ “Then…” He had no idea what to say.

He ground his teeth and pushed his way into the room, making Cas step backwards. Once he was in, he shut the door very firmly behind them and almost locked it against those two nosy pricks downstairs, but decided not to because that would just look bad. Instead, he sat for a moment and hated on the situation because he felt awkward and at a loss for words and that wasn’t fair because Cas looked ridiculous and Dean wanted to laugh at him but felt too uncomfortable to actually do it. So he compromised and glared at Cas.

He really did look silly, wearing clothes that were way too big for him, and it was with a weird, disconnected feeling that Dean noticed that his stubble was actually starting to get thicker (and patchier). He realized with no little discomfort that he was starting to look a bit like the strung-out Cas that his future self had lead to his death in that world where they hadn’t stopped the Apocalypse, and right then Dean decided that wasn’t allowed. He’d taught Sammy how to shave when he was seventeen, and now he was just gonna have to do the same for Cas. This a-little-longer than his usual stubble was out, but Dean had a sneaking suspicion he couldn’t pull off the full-on, total-beardy-guy look, either.

And yet, despite the stupid picture he presented, standing there looking small and forlorn in borrowed clothes, still bruised and scabbed and battered, That Look was there and it ruined everything.

“So, uh,” Dean coughed, “did Sam say anything about getting you some clothes that _aren’t_ mine or his?”

“He said he would go to a store in town tomorrow,” Cas answered. “He doesn’t want me to go out and risk being seen.”

“Well,” Dean grunted, “remind him to go to a convenience store, too. You’re gonna need stuff like a toothbrush and a razor—human body has upkeep, and all.”

“He already bought me those things while you were outside,” Cas said. “Sam told me how to brush my teeth.”

Dean didn’t really have a response to that, so they once again lapsed into a silence that was horribly awkward—at least for him, anyway, because he suspected that it was hard to make the walking definition of “awkward” actually _feel_ awkward.

He really didn’t know why he couldn’t think of anything to say, because there were about fifty bazillion topics that needed to be gone over with Cas. _So just spin the wheel and pick one, you pansy_ , he berated himself. He flapped a hand at Cas and the bed before going over and dragging the desk chair up by the headboard (the very same chair he’d used when he was stitching up Cas’s war wounds), waiting for him to sit obediently on the edge of the bed while Dean pointedly did not. He was still sitting too close for comfort, though, damn him, within touching distance, and if Cas took it into his head to lean forward—

Dean coughed loudly in the silence, leaning his elbows on his knees and looking at his fingers where he laced them together. “You talk much with Sam and Bobby?” he asked for a starter.

Cas shifted, looking away. “Some,” he answered vaguely.

“‘Kay. Great. You talk any of what you’re…gonna do now?” Dean continued.

When Cas didn’t answer, Dean looked up and saw he was looking both concerned and confused. “Do?” he repeated.

“Well, you’re…human now, or close enough, so you can’t exactly go back to your old job,” Dean elaborated. “I just wondered if you’d, you know, thought about what you want to _do_ now. Sam and I aren’t gonna up and quit hunting, and Bobby won’t want you just freeloading permanently, so—” Dean stopped, furrowing his brow at Cas. His concern had rapidly turned into…well, best he could figure, into something like panic. “What’s your problem?”

Cas seemed to be struggling. “I…I don’t really know what I could do, because I’ve only ever been an…an angel,” he managed, and his tone rather alarmed Dean. “I don’t have anywhere to go, you’re the only humans I’ve ever—” He swallowed. “—ever been friends with, and I have…no family or home now, except…” Those big blue eyes turned up at him. “…except you, all of you, but I don’t…I don’t deserve—”

“Dude,” Dean said sharply, cutting him off, “dial back, man. We’re not throwing you out, for Christ’s sake—you’re on the top of America’s Most Wanted right now. Calm down.”

Dean pursed his lips at the familiar pathetic relief, and there Cas went _again_ , with that “oh I am not worthy O Savior” face that he was getting really, really tired of, in no small part because it made him _so damned uncomfortable_. Why did Cas have to think he was Jesus?! Shifting in his seat, he said firmly, “We said we were gonna help you out. We meant it—we all did. But that’s gonna take time, and we all know you’re gonna be here for a while with us while we, you know…get you comfortable in your new skin and all. But you gotta do _something_ eventually, you know?”

Obviously, Cas didn’t know. Dean let out a _chuff_ of irritation. “Like being Bobby’s perky research assistant or something. He wouldn’t mind the help, I don’t think, and who knows what interesting fun factoids you’ve got that none of us know about. He’s kind of a one-man-army in here, and I know it’s gotta drag on him, so I bet he wouldn’t mind you stayin’ on so long as you were pulling your weight.” He waved a vague hand in the air. “Just _something_ , Cas, that’s all I was asking. Nobody’s telling you to get out, ‘cause we _know_ you don’t have anywhere else to go—I was just askin’ if you’d thought about what you _want_ to do now, whether it be that or maybe be a hunter.”

Dammit, he was looking pitiful again. “I—thank you,” Cas murmured, “but I do…understand if you will…want me to leave.”

Dean glared. “We _don’t_ ,” he said a little more firmly than he’d originally wanted, but too late now.

Cas just met his eyes, staring solemnly at him like he always did, so Dean kept talking. “So, anyway, it’s just something to think about after you get on your feet and are a little more used to things. I dunno if you wanna stay with us and learn the ropes of what we do—or rather, how we do it without all the holy bells and whistles that you had before—or maybe if you wanna go off and try normal for a while and be a civilian. Though I gotta say, I think it’ll probably be a while before you can manage that one.”

Cas shook his head. “I don’t think I could be the kind of normal you are referring to, Dean,” he said seriously.

Dean’s mouth twisted, and he snorted. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” He looked Cas up and down, and one of his less-pleasant thoughts from earlier today came back to hit him with full force. “Uh, actually, there might be a bigger problem with that—the whole ‘normal’ thing,” he said. “That thing you’re wearing wasn’t _always_ yours, you know,” he said, poking him in the shoulder. When Cas just blinked at him, Dean clarified, “That body, Cas. America’s Most Wanted, remember? It might have identity issues with the rest of the world now that you can’t just wipe memories and disappear.”

He frowned when Cas’s head bowed, his expression suddenly morose. “Oh,” was all Cas said.

Dean didn’t have time for Cas getting all depressed again about being human, not when there was another issue that was really, really bothering him after—after he’d thought about it today. Shifting a little in his seat, he decided to just ask the question that had been bugging him all day. “Is, uh…is Jimmy…still in there, Cas? You two bunking together permanently now, or what?”

Cas kept staring at the floor. “Jimmy’s gone,” he said quietly.

“Oh.” Dean coughed. “Was it—”

“I don’t know what happened,” Cas said, cutting him off. “I don’t know if he was…expelled with the rest of the souls or if I…lost…him myself when I took them in. But he is not here. He must have moved on.” His Adam’s apple moved as he swallowed, and then added in a whisper, “I hope.”

They lapsed into silence, Dean’s not necessarily comfortable—he hated to admit it, but he himself more often than not just _forgot_ that Cas’s body wasn’t always his and that he was just borrowing. He hated that he forgot about Jimmy Novak, husband and father who’d signed himself up for an eternity of being Cas’s bitch. He also hated to admit it, but some sneaking part of him was relieved that he wouldn’t have to worry about forgetting it anymore.

“I don’t understand it.” Cas’s words snapped Dean from his woolgathering, and he glanced back up at him; Cas was still staring dully at the floor. “It doesn’t seem…right,” he continued. “Why I’m alive and in his body and he’s…he did nothing wrong, and I did _everything_ wrong…yet I am the only one left.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “It should have been him. Not me.”

Dean sighed, suddenly understanding Cas’s melancholy and once again getting mad at himself for not being able to figure out his moods anymore—and here he used to think he was so good at reading people. “Well,” he began, “to be honest, I don’t think the poor guy could’ve gone back to his life all that well. Had a hard enough time just for that one day, after all. And…in the long run, I think it’s probably better—for him—if he’s not in there anymore. You aren’t exactly the ideal roommate.”

Cas just slowly blinked at him, so Dean added, “I’m not sayin’ it’s good he’s dead. I’m just saying…better he be out and moved on than stuck chained to you. And who knows what…uh, all of his new roommates had been doin’ to him.” He waved a vague hand in the air. “Let’s just be glad he’s got some peace now, huh?”

Cas didn’t respond, because Cas never liked to help out when it came to uncomfortable silences—just the opposite, actually. He preferred to draw them out and make them as painful as possible. As such, it didn’t leave Dean with anything to do but either look at the wall or look at the floor or look at him. He decided on the last one because it right now, it was easy for a change—Cas wasn’t staring at back him.

Dean shifted a little, tilting his head and looking at Cas— _really_ looking. His hair was in a permanent state of confusion, and Dean sincerely doubted that would change any time soon. The stubble, of course, something he’d never seen him without, was still there, if a bit thicker. He wasn’t necessarily _scrawny_ (except how he was), but he was all wiry and thin. And, naturally, the big blue eyes to cap it all off; Dean grumpily suspected that _those_ were the real reason Jimmy Novak had been tapped—all the better for Cas to soulfully stare at him with, right?

Dean supposed he was…good-looking. For a guy. The few times he’d been out in public with Cas, he’d seen women give him a once-over (well, for the few seconds a woman could spare for any other man when Dean himself was in the picture). But whether or not he was didn’t make much difference, because Dean patently did not find anything worth checking out on Cas, because Cas was a fuckin’ _dude_!

And yet somehow, that hadn’t stopped him last night when he had—when they’d—when he’d tried—

 _Suck it up, you little puss, and say it like it is_ , he sneered internally. _That didn’t stop you from rounding first and trying to steal second._

Except it _had_ stopped him, because there _was_ no second, and that was the whole fucking problem!

Irritated again, he went back to glaring at the floor. Just because Sam had managed to couch it in terms that made some vague kind of messed-up sense didn’t mean it wasn’t _weird_ , or that it didn’t make him feel like he was going completely out of his mind. Because it _was_ weird, dammit, not to mention probably unhealthy. Check that— _definitely_ unhealthy, because he it was pretty sure that he was halfway to developing a twitch, what with his brain running around in circles over it. At this rate, he was gonna need friggin’ therapy by the time he got sorted out.

If he ever _did_ get sorted out—‘cause how could he even worry about what to do about this situation if he didn’t even know what the hell he wanted?

…For that matter, he didn’t even know what the hell _Cas_ wanted.

Dean narrowed his eyes a little as he looked back up at the room’s other occupant—okay, so Dean knew what _he_ liked to look at (and that Cas wasn’t on the list). But…what did _Cas_ like to look at?

The immediate answer was the most obvious (and the most disconcerting)—Cas liked looking at _him_ , apparently. But, as Dean turned it over in his head, he realized that that wasn’t entirely accurate. Cas hadn’t meant… _that_ …last night when he’d said…what he’d said. So, just ‘cause Cas enjoyed staring at him didn’t mean he enjoyed _looking_ at him, if that made any sense. Which it didn’t.

Dean blew out a rather explosive sigh. This _really_ wasn’t making any sense ( _again_ ). That one disaster of a time he’d tried to get the idiot laid, he’d sure been staring at that hooker’s tits. The messed-up Cas he’d met in 2014 thought of nothing _but_ women (well, women and drugs). To Dean’s disgust, he’d certainly had all the usual reactions to watching porn, even if he didn’t get it. And, of course, there was the Meg Incident. Always women—he’d never shown any inclination to want to go after a dude…but last night, he’d certainly been…responsive. Dean shifted around in his seat again, ill at ease. So, what—Cas just liked everything? That didn’t make any sense either; if he liked everything, he’d friggin’ go after it and just not wait for someone to grab him! God knew Dean had met enough angels who did just that. What was Cas’s problem, anyway? Why the hell was he so uptight? “Do you even _notice_ women?”

Cas’s head came up, and it took Dean a second to realize just why he was looking at him so blankly, his expression vaguely startled—because he’d said that last one aloud.

Cas was clearly floundering. “I—I don’t—”

Dean waved a hand, covering his own embarrassment. “Lemme start over,” he grunted. “Do you…you know, ever look at women?”

That apparently didn’t clear things up for Cas, who was still looking at him like he’d just spoken Pig Latin. “I’ve…seen women—”

“No, Cas,” he interrupted irritably. “I mean do you _look_ at women. You know—notice that they’ve got things like _boobs_?” he asked, cupping his hands vaguely at his own chest.

Cas’s confusion was approaching near-comical levels. “Women…have them, and I have seen them—” he said haltingly.

Dean growled. _Winchester, it’s Cas, here. You should know better by now._ “Cas,” he said very deliberately, “have you ever wanted to have sex with a woman? You know—just seen one out on the street and thought she was hot and that you’d like to tap that?”

 _Finally._ Cas’s eyes widened a little and then immediately cut to the side, just like they had when Dean had first pried it out of him that he was a 40,000-Year-Old Virgin. He shifted uncomfortably, and then, without meeting Dean’s eyes, replied, “No. I don’t…look at women. Not…like that.”

Dean pursed his lips. “Ever?”

“Not—no.”

Dean’s spine involuntarily stiffened. “What—do you look at _guys_ that way?” he demanded.

Cas’s expression didn’t change. “No.”

Dean gave a rather skeptical snort. “Cas, you gotta have _some_ kind of sex drive—and don’t try to deny it, ‘cause I know that’s a lie. Did you forget about, you know, _Meg_?”

Cas’s discomfort got worse, if that was possible. “I…didn’t forget,” he said haltingly. “I was…there is a reason angels were forbidden to engage in human practices.”

Dean made a rude noise. “That sure as hell didn’t stop most of the ones I met,” he retorted.

“But they had already fallen,” Cas answered earnestly. “Angels, in our true forms, we don’t—we don’t breed, don’t have…urges, like that. In the past when we walked the earth, the hosts of Heaven were barred from interacting with humans in such a fashion. Those who disobeyed were severely punished.” He looked down at his hands. “I…suspect it was really just to keep us—uh—‘toeing the line,’ as you said.” He looked up again, and his words were faltering as he said, “Angels don’t feel—not like you do. But in human vessels, it can be very easy to give in, to the hedonism of human physical sensations. They are…quite overwhelming, and can make us…forget ourselves.”

Dean felt a very unpleasant heat crawling up his neck. _Shit—did I—did I seriously_ Meg _him last night?_

“But you never did,” Dean said unnecessarily—anything to distract him from that thought.

If he didn’t know any better, he’d almost say that Cas looked offended by such a suggestion—although, knowing Cas, Dean suspected it was less over the idea that he might have been screwing around and more over the implication that he’d have broken ranks. But the look was quickly gone, and he shook his head slightly, turning uncomfortable again as he answered, “No—never. Not as a male or a female.”

Dean snorted. “I don’t think your two-minute stint as a twelve-year-old girl counts as you being _female_ , Cas.”

“I was referring to the vessel I took the last time I was here before we were all recalled to Heaven.”

Dean started. “Wait—you mean you _really_ used to be a chick?” he demanded.

Cas’s brow furrowed. “I was never a…a ‘chick’,” he said. “I was an angel.”

Exasperated, Dean waved his answer away. “Okay, whatever—but, I mean, you’ve trawled around as a woman before? Like, for real? Not just taking over a little kid for a few minutes”

“Yes,” Cas answered, as if having himself a little genderflip was like changing his shirt. “My vessel was a distant ancestor of this one,” he added, looking down at himself.

God, how was he supposed to figure all this shit out when the guy he was trying to talk to didn’t see any problems with being a girl? “Didn’t—didn’t that _bother_ you?” Dean asked. “Being a girl when you were really a guy? Hell, didn’t being a _little_ girl bother you too?”

Cas got that stupid blank look again. “I was not a guy,” he answered slowly.

Dean stared at him. “Then what the hell are you?” he asked after a moment.

“An angel,” Cas answered, looking bewildered. Then his face dropped. “I was an angel,” he corrected himself, going gloomy again.

Dean didn’t have time for his angst over his demotion. “What does that mean, exactly, ‘an angel’?” he demanded. “You called all the rest of the angels your brothers, but some came down here as women, even Raphael, who still called himself your brother even when he was wearing a chick, and then there was Anna—how do you guys even _work_?”

Amazingly, Cas’s face cleared a little. He actually seemed to understand Dean’s confusion, would wonders never cease, and his voice was much steadier as he patiently answered, “Angels weren’t created two by two, male and female, Dean. Those are physical characteristics of humans and the other animals here on earth. Angels simply…are.”

 _Huh. Sam was right—he’s not technically a guy. Well, screw him._ “Technically” could kiss his ass, anyway—if it had a dick, it was a dude, end of story. “Well, I’ve got news for you,” Dean informed him. “You have _physical characteristics_ now, so I think you’d better get used to thinking of yourself as a guy.”

Cas looked pensive, but then nodded. “Yes—that’s what Sam said when I spoke to him.”

Dean blinked.

He spoke to Sam?

“You spoke to Sam?”

Cas nodded. “After breakfast.”

He spoke to Sam.

Cas spoke to Sam.

That meant Sam spoke to Cas.

Cas and Sam _spoke_.

“You talked with Sam,” he repeated. “About last night.”

They talked about it. Cas talked about it with Sam. Cas talked about _last night_ with _Sam._

_Cas fucking talked about making out with me to Sam!_

There was going to be death. First, he was gonna to kill Cas, right here and now. Then he was going to go downstairs and he was gonna to kill Sam. Then, just for good measure, he was gonna kill Bobby—better safe than sorry. And finally, he was gonna to kill _himself_. Everyone was going to die because _this was too fucking much_! Bad enough that Sam and Bobby had to gossip about what they had actually seen last night, but now Sam was pumping Cas for all the juicy details on what they _hadn’t_ seen, and Cas was too much of a dumbass to keep his goddamn mouth shut!

Dean was suddenly, awfully aware that Cas was looking rather speculatively at him, and he wanted to black one of his pretty blue eyes for it. Before he had a chance to consider actually doing it, Cas started talking again.

“You are…uncomfortable with my being in a male vessel,” he said very seriously, halfway between a question and a statement.

Oh, he _so_ didn’t want to hear this.

Cas seemed to be casting about for words in the face of Dean’s frozen silence, flicking his eyes between Dean and the floor, until he finally licked his lips and said, “Sam said…Sam said that you do…care about me…”

He _really_ didn’t want to hear this!

“…But that it is…difficult, because you…normally only feel that way for women?” His voice lilted upwards, turning it into a question.

Dean changed his mind. He wanted to hear _all_ of it, to make tearing off Sam’s head all the more justified. He wanted to hear _every_ word—to _count_ every word—so then he could march straight downstairs and _take every one of ‘em right out of his overgrown ass_! What the hell did Sam tell him?! What the hell did _Cas_ tell him?! And now this— _fuck_ , Cas was just now figuring out that Dean—how he—he hadn’t realized _any_ of this but fucking _Sam_ had to go and _tell_ him and now Cas was going to patiently tell Dean that he had the wrong idea and all about how Angels Don’t Do That or weren’t capable of it or some other bullshit, never mind that he wasn’t an angel anymore—but what the hell did that even _matter_ to him, because Dean didn’t—!

Dean scrubbed his hand over his face—and then stopped. Cas was looking at him. No, he was _looking_ at him again, his eyes soft and filled with a gentle regret. “I’m sorry that I didn’t take a female vessel for you, Dean,” he said quietly.

For a second or two, all Dean could do was blink stupidly at Cas, and then his shoulders slumped, his gut twisting unpleasantly as Cas’s words sank in. However, on its heels was a surge of indignation—what the hell? Barely twenty-four hours ago, Cas turned him inside out and was probably planning on doing the same thing to his brother for refusing to bow to the New God, and now _Dean_ was the one feeling like a dick?! He had a good mind to tell Cas exactly how he felt about this situation just make _him_ feel bad—and then he realized that it was pointless because Cas already _did_ feel bad because he didn’t have boobs. Which was…fucking ridiculous.

_Shit._

“Cas,” he started tiredly, still not entirely sure what he was going to say, “you don’t…need to apologize…for that. In fact, you should never apologize for that again ‘cause it’s stupid. I don’t…I don’t want you to be a woman.” Dean paused, his brow creasing a little as he realized what he had just said—and realized that he _meant_ it. He looked up at Cas, who was head-tilting at him. “I don’t—I dunno how, but things would’ve been…different if you had been cruising around in a chick all this time. I know, I know,” he said a little loudly, seeing that Cas was about to protest. “You still would’ve been _you_ , ‘cause you’re an angel and all that crap, even though you never think to check your own damn plumbing.”

Dean ignored Cas’s confused look at the statement and ploughed ahead, the words just kind of falling out of his mouth now. “But things _would’ve_ been different.” He forced himself to look right into Cas’s eyes this time—see how he liked it, the stare-y little bastard. “And I don’t want them to be different. I’m…” He couldn’t say “happy,” because right now he wasn’t, and he couldn’t say “fine” either, so he struggled for a moment until he finally picked a word: “I’m… _okay_ with you…like this.”

Crap—that wasn’t the right word, either; this was so not okay. Well, whatever—it was the right word to use in that Cas wasn’t looking pitiful anymore about being a dude, so Dean supposed it would have to do. He nodded vaguely to himself, drumming his fingers against his knee.

“Are we…” Dean glanced up when Cas started talking, hesitant and unsure. “…all right, then?” he finished.

Dean snorted. “Yeah, Cas,” he sighed. “We’re all right.”

They both lapsed into silence again, neither looking at the other (which Dean was very glad for). He was grateful for the silence this time because it gave him some time to go back to plotting all manner of unspeakable horrors he was going to rain down on Sam for sticking his nose in his business and talking to Cas about _feelings_ —about _his_ feelings, no less. His plans involving the chili powder and the mouthwash were interrupted when he noticed Cas was scratching absently at his ribs. After boggling for a minute at how _wrong_ such a normal, human motion looked on Cas, he suddenly realized what he was doing.

“Don’t do that,” Dean ordered, shoving his hand away. “Those are your stitches—you’re gonna tear them out.”

Cas frowned, fidgeting. “It’s uncomfortable,” he said, and Dean was amused to hear that his voice sounded just a little bit sulky.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Deal with it,” he said firmly. “That isn’t gonna be the first itch you can’t scratch, not by a long shot.”

Dean wasn’t stupid; he knew the shifty look Cas had and he could tell he was gonna scratch it again when nobody was watching him. He reminded himself to tell Bobby not to give Cas anymore of the painkillers so he couldn’t get away with touching the wound without it hurting him—then he’d learn. ‘Sides, Dean hadn’t been too keen on giving them to him in the first place, what with knowing how fast Cas could go junkie. No way they could keep up with the habit he’d run if he started; best to just keep him off that shit.

Heaving a sigh, he got to his feet. “Come on, Cas. You may as well go to sleep,” he grunted, irritated yet again that Cas got to sleep in a bed and Dean would get to sleep on the floor. The bed frame creaked as Cas got up with him, and Dean was forced to take a tiny step back when Cas, as always, was suddenly right up in his face. Angel or not, Personal Space and Cas would never be friends, Dean decided. He opened his mouth to tell Cas to sit back down, because he wasn’t going anywhere…

 _Dammit._ There it was again—why did Cas always _look_ at him like that?! And why did he always get more _looky_ when he got up in Dean’s face?! And why, _oh why_ , did Dean’s insides have to suddenly start doing that twisty thing when he did, and even _worse_ this time because Cas was right up in in his business?!

Well, that was stupid. He knew why—Sam had told him why. It was because he liked pussy but he still…liked…Cas. There was no point in trying to deny it now—God knew he’d spent almost all day and most of last night trying to do just that and failing miserably. He just didn’t know what he was supposed to _do_ about it. He didn’t like it, but he couldn’t avoid it (though he really wanted to), and he certainly couldn’t deny it, so _what_?

 _What you do with anything you can’t run or hide from_ , his mind dryly asked him, in a voice that sounded _disturbingly_ like his brother’s.

No. No way—no way he could just charge into _this_ one.

…Except how he kind of already had.

He cleared his throat, staring down at Cas who just stared solemnly (and _soppily_ ) back. _Doesn’t have to be much. Just try…something. Anything. If anything, just to let him know that we’re okay._ He hated how his neck felt hot, but before he could chicken out, he reached out and pulled Cas forward by his arm, careful not to grab him by a bruise, and drew him into a rough embrace. Cas came willingly, just passively going with it like he had before. Dean tensed a little when he suddenly felt Cas move, sooner than he had the last time even if he still hesitated a bit, and then Cas was tentatively hugging him back. But then he started _leaning_ on him, pressing in all close, and—no, Dean was not going to throw him off. He could handle this. It was _fine_.

…and really, it mostly was. It was Cas—just Cas. He was warm, all pressed up against him like this, his breaths coming in even little puffs against Dean neck, which was apparently Cas’s favorite spot to be, though Dean had no idea why (and he admittedly wasn’t quite so okay with the way he was _breathing_ on him). Dean let his eyes close, which made things easier because he didn’t have to see that he was… _holding_ a dude like this—he could just hug _Cas_. Which was still weird, but…not _as_ weird. He guessed.

No, it was still fucking weird.

He sighed without thinking about it, but then tensed as he felt Cas suddenly shudder, the hands on his back twitching. Dean looked down and spotted goosebumps on the side of Cas’s neck. His first thought was a rather bitchy, _So, how do_ you _like it?_ But any triumph quickly dried up when he realized from the way that Cas’s arms had tightened around him and his breathing had sped up that, well, he kinda did like it, and that ruined everything and he turned away from Cas’s neck.

Okay, he was starting to get mildly freaked out now. Cas might be small and slight and delicate in his arms, even if he was kinda bony, but he wasn’t fooling anyone—still a dude.

Dean dropped his hands, and of course he was so wound up right now that the normal motion felt like he was _petting_ the skinny runt, and his ridiculously sensitive hands picked up every _wrong_ detail of the shape of him. Cas was hard and pointy in places that he shouldn’t be and conspicuously missing certain curves and swells in others—‘cause he was a goddamn _guy_!

Dean’s throat clicked as he swallowed, his hands sort of stuck on the too-narrow and too-straight hips beneath them, but he managed to pull away a little. Cas’s head came up, and he was close, _way too close_. Well, of course he was too close, he wouldn’t let _go_! Dean’s mouth went dry because all he could see was that Cas was _looking_ at him again, he was _always fucking looking_ at him. He tried to wet his lips, and oh, but _that_ was the mother of all bad ideas, because Cas saw it and now he was looking _there_ , just like Dean had looked at him last night before—

This was very bad. Dean remembered what happened last time— _both_ last times they got like this, and his gut was all knotted up and his back went rigid when he saw Cas lean up, just a little, but then he stopped. If he didn’t just fucking do something, Dean was gonna explode, but then Cas _did_ do something and closed the distance and he felt the whisper of his lips on his own. God _dammit_ , what the hell was he supposed to do, stuck here like this with his eyes welded open with those blue ones boring into him so all he could see was _Cas_?!

Cas pulled away; he’d barely touched him for all that Dean thought that he was gonna spontaneously combust on the spot, and now he was looking up at him with a concerned expression. “Was that…all right? For me to do that?” he asked worriedly.

 _No, it wasn’t fucking all right!_ Of course he didn’t _say_ that, but Cas seemed just know it and now was looking up at him like a stomped-on puppy. Dean felt his stomach clench at the sight of it, at the big dewy eyes and that pathetic face, because it was Cas, he was just _Cas_ now, after everything that happened this past year he really was _his_ Cas again, and Dean forced his throat to unlock. “Yeah, Cas,” he ground out. “It’s all right.”

Cas clearly didn’t buy it—shit, the moron believed almost every word that came out of Dean’s mouth and half the time he acted like it was some kind of _gospel_ , but he couldn’t just accept what he said this one time and let it go? Dean couldn’t really tell if he was looking all pathetic because he felt rejected or because he felt bad for doing something he thought ( _correctly_ ) that Dean wasn’t okay with, and he didn’t really care—he just really, really just wanted Cas to stop looking like that because it was the sorriest sight ever.

_Are you seriously gonna do what I think you’re gonna do?_

Yes. Yes, he was. And he did.

He squeezed his eyes shut and blundered forward, bumping Cas’s nose in his blind quest for his mouth and—there it was.

He could not—do this with his hands so low on Cas’s hips, so he moved them up, sliding them to rest on his waist instead—which wasn’t any better, because when he held women there, their nice curvy hips were what supported his hands and Cas didn’t _have_ any hips. Cas wasn’t pulling away, which meant if anyone was gonna end this one, it would be Dean. So he did, keeping his eyes firmly shut even though he didn’t completely pull back and was still able to feel Cas’s breath puffing across his mouth.

Then that vanished when Cas leaned forward and he was kissing him again.

He almost opened his eyes again, but didn’t for the sake of his own sanity—because Cas was a fast learner, and that familiar flutter in his middle made him want to crawl away and hide even as he tilted his head so that his nose wasn’t mashed so bad and he has better room to maneuver. Cas’s arms tightened a little, and Dean, mostly because he knew he’d feel really idiotic if he just kept standing there like a stump letting Cas mack on him, he just…went along with it, matching Cas’s movement and trying to ignore the slow heat in his midsection.

Freaky as it was and as weird (and slightly sick) as he felt doing it, Dean thought everything was going pretty well right up until Cas went fucking insane.

Dean wasn’t quite sure what did it; he’d been concentrating too hard on keeping himself together, paying attention just to the mouth moving against his own and trying not to think about who—or more specifically, _what_ it was attached to. Cas was an idiot, but he wasn’t stupid; he was picking up on things pretty damn quick, what with the way he was tilting his head just so and his lips were making those tentative, shallow movements. He was actually coming off as _shy_ about it, and as much as Dean hated to admit it, it…kinda got his blood going. So much so that he found himself taking the lead a bit, catching Cas’s full bottom lip between his own, giving it a tug, and as any of his old girlfriends could tell ya his tongue always had had a mind of its own, and it snuck out for a little lick.

Cas suddenly went very still. Dean felt himself freeze in response—oh, shit, that was a mistake, now he was gonna say something or—

But then Cas just _attacked_ him.

He _seized_ his arms, and a muffled shout of surprise escaped Dean as he was shoved backwards—no, he was _flung_ backwards into the wall beside the bed. Jesus _Christ_ , how did that stringy little dork have the muscle to do that now?! And then his eyes nearly bugged out of his head and his breath was snatched away from him and all he could manage was the girliest squeak _ever_ as Cas was abruptly _on_ him, his mouth hot and furiously covering his own, his tongue thrusting wildly forward into his mouth. His arms were like a vice, one hand gripping his short hairs above his neck to yank his head where Cas wanted it and the other holding him flush with the wall so he couldn’t move, and Dear God, Dean had done it now, he really had done him just like Meg had and now Cas had gone wild and grabbed him just like he had her and—

Had _her_?

Outrage boiled up like molten lava in his stomach. _Oh, no you don’t, you little fucker, you conned me into this gay shit, but the hell you’re gonna make_ me _play the woman!_

Dean grabbed him, nearly lifting him right off his feet ‘cause he was a scrawny son of a bitch, and then he flipped _him_ around, slammed _him_ into the wall, and now _Dean_ was in charge here—Dean Winchester did _not_ look like a bitch, goddammit, and don’t you forget it!

Cas didn’t seem to care. His eyes were wild when he hit the wall, rattling the pictures hanging beside his head, and then in the next instant he was pretty much trying to climb up Dean like a monkey on a stick. Dean held him down, because he was gonna get it now; Dean knew he could out-kiss that demonic whore with one lip tied behind his back, so he grabbed Cas by his hair and jerked his head back and now he was gonna show him how it was done.

Before Cas could try to jump on him again, he pressed against him and effectively pinned him and, tightening his fingers in his hair, sucked in a breath and kissed him hard, and that hot feeling surged upwards from his stomach into his chest as he did. Cas was trying to push back against him but Dean was prepared this time, and he was stronger than Cas was—he wasn’t going anywhere. One of Dean’s knees shot forward, hitting the wall right between his legs, and Cas shuddered, his hands scrabbling wildly around until they dug almost painfully into Dean’s shoulders. Dean didn’t let up, not even coming up for air as he pushed even harder against him, flattening him against the wall until he could barely move. Cas’s grip tightened, clinging to him even as he tried to push away from the wall, but Dean had him right where he wanted him and he just kept going, showing Cas that he couldn’t learn jack shit from just watching some fucking pizza man as he forced Cas’s head back even further and sucked on his lower lip, catching it between his teeth, before licking his way back inside his mouth.

Cas was panting now, the few breaths he managed between kisses little labored gasps. His flailing was growing weaker, and when Dean finally stopped, pulling his mouth away but keeping his eyes closed and his forehead resting against Cas’s, he couldn’t help but smirk when he heard the helpless wheeze as Cas finally managed to take a full breath.

That’s all he gave him, but this time when he leaned forward, he wasn’t so rough, relaxing his fingers tangled tight in Cas’s hair until he was simply cradling his head, not forcing him but just guiding him. Dean smiled a little against Cas’s mouth when he felt his feeble attempts to try to rev things up again and just used his own tongue to push him back down. Cas needed to learn that it didn’t always have to be a war.

Dean’s other hand slid down across Cas’s narrow shoulders and back, warm through the fabric of his old T-shirt. Dean could feel Cas straining against him, feel the play of his muscles beneath the cotton, but he wasn’t going anywhere, not until Dean said so. He kept his kisses deep but slow, no matter how Cas struggled against him, forcing him to gentleness by only letting him get little sips of air before closing his mouth over his again.

Dean’s hand continued downward, finding a handful of nice firm ass. He was amused by the hitching sigh Cas let out and the way he twitched against him, and then he broke away for real this time, grinning at Cas’s gasping breath. Keeping close, he pressed Cas’s shoulders back against the wall with his own and then leaned his head down until he found the curve of his ear and the sweet skin behind it with his teeth, and then at the rasp of his tongue Cas let out a tiny sound close to a whimper.

 _Yeah, that’s what I thought._ Dean grinned smugly, nipping at the tender place just where Cas’s neck met his shoulder and savoring the low, rolling heat that filled his chest when he felt Cas shiver in response. _You’ve been thunderstruck. Thank you, come again._ He gently licked at the spot that he’d nibbled and then started moving upward to the side of his neck, feeling the pulse beating crazily through his skin. He slid his other hand down, finding Cas’s thigh, and he gripped and pulled it upward to hook around his hip, lifting Cas up so that he could keep moving his mouth up his neck towards his mouth again, up under his chin—

Oh, fuck. _Stubble._

And just like that, Dean suddenly realized what he was doing, who he was doing it with, and just what he was. Yeah—a _he_.

His eyes snapped open and he jerked his head back and tried to pull himself away, his horror at war with that _fucking feeling_ , but Cas wasn’t letting go; he was following him, and he wouldn’t let Dean get _off_ him. His hands found Cas’s shoulders and shoved, pushing him back up against the wall again and putting a good foot of space between them. He finally saw him, saw _him_ , goddammit, Cas’s hair sticking up in all directions because that’s what _Dean_ had done to it, and his breathing was erratic and his face was flushed because Dean was just that good, his eyes were wild and focused because—

—because he could see in Cas’s eye that he thought it was time for war again and was bracing himself against the wall and two seconds from jumping him again—

“ _Stop!_ ” Dean snarled, punctuating his order with another shove against the wall. “Just _stop_ , for fuck’s sake!”

The fire in Cas’s eyes didn’t die immediately, but at least some sense seemed to come over him again—and it was then quickly snuffed out by a combination of a bewildered expression like a sleepwalker waking up and that goddamn angsty look he got whenever he thought he’d done something to upset Dean.

Dean released his shoulders and turned away, mashing his fist against his mouth, not wanting to see that anymore, and then realized that was a good thing because he suddenly became unpleasantly aware that doing all of that hadn’t just revved Cas’s motor, oh no. Now here he was all hot and half-hard because he’d been throwing down all of his best moves _with a fuckin’ guy_.

But even worse was horrible question that came rushing in on the heels of that one: What had he just _done_ to Cas? Cas had been fine until— _Dean_ was the one who took it further. Then he—he hated thinking of it like this, but there was no other way to think of it except to think that he _had_ Meg’d him. _Again._ And after all that talk of hedonism and _forgetting_ himself and Dean had just…

Well, at least the combination of remembering that Cas was a guy and the thought that Dean might’ve just accidentally done something vaguely rapey to him was taking care of anything that might or might not have risen south of the border. Dean was able to turn around and face him much sooner than he normally would’ve been.

Cas was watching him with an anxious look, but when Dean turned around and met his gaze, Cas dropped his eyes to the floor with an almost ashamed expression. Oh, great. That was just what this situation needed— _both_ of them looking all shameful and naughty like—like they were two teenaged boys _experimenting_ —

“Dean,” Cas said hesitantly, “I—”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Dean spat, “say you are sorry. _Don’t._ ” He didn’t want apologies, especially when he felt like he’d just… _taken advantage_ of him without meaning to.

Cas just stared helplessly at him for a moment before going back to looking at the floor, and Dean knew he thought he was mad at him again—which he was, but not the way he thought, which didn’t make it any better.

This whole goddamn situation was completely fucked up and Dean just wanted—to sit down.

He backed up until his legs bumped the bed and then he just kind of collapsed down on it, his elbows on his knees and his face buried in his hands. _Why couldn’t things be normal again?_ That’s all he’d ever wanted—was that just too much to ask? Why couldn’t his life just be simple? Why was it that every time he solved a huge problem, fifty million new ones that were even bigger than the one he’d just taken care of cropped up and got in his face?

_Why the fuck did it have to be Cas?!_

He started when he felt the mattress move beneath him, and his head snapped up—and there was Cas, sitting stiffly beside him, and when he caught his eye Dean actually _blushed_ , goddammit, and Cas did too, and they both hastily looked away. _Isn’t this just peachy—a pair of blushing virgins_ , Dean thought scathingly.

Cas was fidgeting again, one hand twisting the hem of his—no, that was Dean’s, dammit—shirt. Dean saw him take a breath and knew he was gonna start talking again, but Dean did not want to hear it. No—it was his turn to talk.

“What the fuck, Cas?” he blurted out before Cas could start blabbing. “Jesus Christ, this—what do you—” Well, that didn’t work out; in his haste to make sure Cas couldn’t talk, he’d started babbling without having any idea what to say, and so ran out of stupid shit in a hurry.

“Dean, I’m s—” At Dean’s furious glare, he caught the word in his throat before it got out, and he swallowed before starting again, his eyes firmly on his scabbed and bruised knees poking out of Sam’s sail-like shorts. “I don’t…I don’t intend to—to do…these things, but this vessel, it— _reacts_ , to things that I never…I don’t know when it’s going to…” he trailed off, looking up with his face all pleading, like he was begging Dean to explain it to him. Well, fuck that—Dean wasn’t gonna give The Talk to him, especially after what they just did. Bad enough when he’d had to give it to Sam, but this? No way.

He also wasn’t gonna buy that crap excuse. “It’s _your_ body now,” Dean growled, “so you’ve gotta have _some_ idea what the hell it’s gonna do—what _you’re_ gonna do. Or— _shit_ , Cas, what—what do you _want_?!” He twisted in bed to face him, his hands in fists. “I—someone flicks a switch on you and you go on autopilot, you have no control over what you do whether you want it or not?! Don’t you say that’s how it is, that’s bullshit!”

He paused his ranting to take a breath, trying to calm down and failing because he so didn’t buy Cas trying to claim he lost control—but the more he thought about it, the more Dean realized that _he’d_ lost control too because the second things had gotten heated up Dean had just—just fucking started— _son of a_ bitch _!_

“This—this is _insane_ , Cas! I don’t—Cas, I don’t know what you _want_! _What the fuck do you even want?!_ ”

Cas sat for a few seconds after Dean shouted his last sentence, apparently waiting for more yelling. He finally realized more wasn’t coming (though if he didn’t talk soon there _would_ be), so he licked his lips and said, “Dean, I…I only want you to be…happy.” The sheep’s eyes were on in full-force. “But I’m making you unhappy, and I’m not sure what…I don’t know how to help that.”

Well, it was official. The next time Cas did that—took a situation where Dean was _fully justified_ in being furious but Cas just started bleeding-hearting all over him and making Dean wilt and feel like a total dick—he was gonna to strangle him.

Dean took in a deep breath through his nose; Cas was _not_ going to distract him like this. That was changing the subject—or maybe it wasn’t, maybe it was just him being the brainless chucklehead that he was, Dean didn’t really care. All he knew at this point was he was sick and tired of this—this _selfless_ crap!

“Cas,” he ground out, “I don’t care what _I_ want—what do _you_ want? Do you—did you want…any of—or did you just _forget yourself_? I don’t know what _you want_ , Cas, because you just—” He stopped, unable to put what he wanted to say into words that made any sense because this situation didn’t _make_ sense.

But Cas was just staring mournfully at him, even if he was a little confused. “That _is_ what I want, Dean,” he said quietly. “I only know I want you to be happy. I’ve done so much to…” He looked away. “…to make you miserable. All I want is to…correct that.” He met Dean’s eyes again, all open and earnest and _piercing_. “I want…to do anything I can to—to make you happy again.”

And he _meant_ it, too. Dean could tell. The awful truth of it all was that Cas _couldn’t_ turn off the selfless crap because that’s just how he was when it came to him; hadn’t that been why he did nearly everything he did? He was always doing it for _him_ , the one paltry human that conned him into falling. The stupid bastard never did anything for himself because he was too busy doing it all, whether that be falling or burning or _dying_ , for _Dean_.

Dean—who right now really wanted to tell Cas that if he wanted to go cry in his ice cream and cuddle and talk about feelings and generally be a great big pussy that he should go find _Sam_ , but couldn’t because his chest was painfully tight and he couldn’t seem to get his throat to work right to actually say the words.

_Fuck me. And fuck him, too. Fuck everybody._

Dean slumped, closing his eyes and turning away again. He had no idea how Cas managed to be so simple and yet so unbelievably complicated all at the same time, and he _really_ didn’t know why he always felt it necessary to drag Dean into it, too. Cas needed a hobby—a _different_ hobby that wasn’t “completely jack up Dean Winchester’s life to the point that he wants to put his own head in a meat grinder”.

He glanced back up at Cas, pursing his lips a little. “Okay,” he sighed tiredly. “Here—this would just _thrill_ me. Just…tell me if you are… _okay_ with what…just happened, and not just because you think it’ll make _me_ happy. Did you—” Christ, this was awful, because he had to spell it out because Cas was a moron, “— _like_ that, at all?” He winced, shuddering a bit.

Cas’s mouth opened but then shut just as quickly and he went to looking rather studiously at the floor. Dean’s eyes narrowed as he watched him fidget, his eyes flicking up at him but then cutting away just as quickly, his cheeks darkening as he squirmed.

Dean had had a lot of trouble lately reading Cas’s moods and intentions. He really couldn’t remember the last time he’d managed to guess what Cas was feeling, and he didn’t think that he and Cas had been on the same page conversation-wise once over the past two days. But Dean knew _that_ look—he’d seen it plenty of times on people who were way better at hiding their emotions, and he could spot it every time.

Dean probably would’ve laughed at the sight of Cas’s new libido doing battle with his inner Angelic Legion of Decency if it weren’t for the fact that said libido was pointed right at _him_.

So. He _did_ like it. It wasn’t as bad as Dean thought it was. No, that was wrong—it was just as bad, if not worse. It just wasn’t so bad in the “potential molestation” department. Still meant he had to deal with the fact that, in some weird way that neither of them really got, Cas had the hots for him.

Dean reminded himself to never, ever think that thought again.

He leaned his elbows on his knees again, now regretting that he had decided to come up here completely sober—maybe drinking would’ve made this whole situation easier. At the very least, he probably wouldn’t have cared as much.

 _Oh, but that wouldn’t be fair to Your Own Personal Jesus over there, would it?_ his mind sneered at him. He jerked irritably, hating his inner monologue sometimes, but then wearily looked back over at Cas.

He was still looking at the floor, which meant Dean was free to watch him without fear of Cas _looking_ at him. He was a lot twitchier now, he realized. Dean hadn’t really had time to notice any of the differences the last time he’d been human, but he noticed now. It was bizarre, how he’d never noticed how still Cas had been until he suddenly wasn’t anymore. His shoulders slumped, he shifted because he was uncomfortable, and he picked at the hem of his shirt. He kept fidgeting because he couldn’t scratch at his ribs, he blinked often, and the only thing that he ever truly focused his gaze on anymore, the way it had always been before, was, well…Dean himself.

He was different. Except how he was the same—the same awkward idiot who was loyal to a point that Dean almost had trouble understanding. He was just _Cas_.

Dean blinked when Cas suddenly looked up at him, and Dean could tell he was still confused and worried and unhappy and embarrassed and eager to please and a whole bunch of other emotions he had no idea what to do with. But even with all of that, he knew he wanted to make Dean happy.

Dean had his hand on Cas’s shoulder before he even knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to try and _explain_ things, but what good would that do? This situation was…well, inexplicable. That, and even if he could put into words what the hell was going on, Cas probably wouldn’t get it anyway. He wasn’t an angel anymore, except he still was an angel—still _Cas_ , who just Didn’t Get It. Telling him anything was pointless—and besides, Dean didn’t do well with the whole “telling” thing anyway. He preferred to let actions do the talking, hence the reason he always shot first and asked questions later.

 _So show him_ , simpered the Sam-Voice again.

Aw, hell.

His hand was already sliding across Cas’s shoulders to the back of his neck, pulling him forward. He wasn’t really sure where to put his other hand—see, if he was with a chick, he’d know exactly where to put it, but he brushed that thought away ‘cause it pissed him off. His edgy mental bitching was interrupted when Cas startled him by not just letting himself be passively led this time—he seemed to know what Dean was doing and so leaned into it, and Dean tensed when Cas put a hand on his shoulder in return, twisting to face him. That almost made Dean want to push him off again—what had happened before when Cas stopped being passive was not okay. But there were those big blue eyes again, and they were all Dean could see—just those, just…Cas.

He wasn’t sure if he was happy or not that he couldn’t tell who started it this time. _Maybe we just met in the middle_ , he thought vaguely as Cas leaned against him, kissing back.

It wasn’t all that terrible. With his eyes closed, he didn’t have to look at everything that was attached, and if he just kept one arm around his shoulders and the other around his lower back, he couldn’t feel everything that was missing. There was the occasional disturbing scrape of stubble, but he was already getting pretty good at avoiding it ( _Jesus Christ_ ). However, he was definitely making Cas shave the first chance he got whether he wanted to or not, and made a mental note to never, ever try and pick up a girl again when he wasn’t silky-smooth himself, because he’d never known until now just how goddamn uncomfortable that was.

Dean felt Cas’s sigh as much as heard it, but he started a little when Cas’s hand was suddenly on the side of his neck, his fingers curled around the back and the pad of his thumb against his jaw, hesitant and shy again. That…was nice? He was going to go with that, because the other options would probably result in violence and he didn’t really want that.

All this sissy stuff was giving him too much opportunity to think about what he was doing. Dean braced himself, and then let his mouth open a bit, and when he felt Cas’s do the same he slipped his tongue out, feeling his slightly chapped lips and that same cut on his lip that he’d given him last night all scabbed over now and—yep, there it was. Cas’s breath caught and his spine stiffened and Dean felt the fingers in his hair twitch—

He was ready for it this time and managed to keep from getting knocked over when Cas suddenly launched himself at him. He held his ground, refusing to let Cas shove him anywhere. Good God, where did he get ideas like this? Why did he only have two speeds?!

With a bit of a jolt, he realized that Cas was still bearing down on him. The ropy nerd was actually managing to push him backwards. So, with a grunt, Dean yanked him around, using his own momentum against him, and Cas landed with a soft thump and a creak of springs with Dean hovering over him. _See, Sammy,_ this _is someone who’s confusing reality with porn_ , he thought in irritation. Well, Cas’s TV privileges were officially revoked, because this was not _Casa Erotica_ , dammit, this was real life and he had better slow down.

Cas had both hands knotted in Dean’s hair, kissing as fiercely as before as he tried to lunge up off the bed, but Dean didn’t let him and just used his weight to press him down into the mattress. He knew how to make the little punk calm down now and was going to use that to his advantage: he just had to hold his breath longer. Dean’s hand touched warm flesh; Cas’s shirt had ridden up in this latest battle, and he didn’t miss how Cas trembled slightly when he touched him. Forcing himself not to think about how messed up it was to be doing it when there was nothing up there to _grope_ and so no reason to do it, he slipped his hand under the hem and up his side, brushing Cas’s uninjured ribs, his fingertips lightly smoothing over the cuts and bruises he felt on the way, careful to stay gentle.

It wasn’t much by way of petting, and by all rights shouldn’t have made Cas quiver like he did. However, Dean wasn’t gonna complain when it did the job, keeping Cas distracted and pin-able. He kept his writhing attempts to crawl on top of him firmly squashed, and let Cas get some air before covering his mouth with his own again and muffling the breathy and decidedly girly moan he’d been letting out.

Cas’s hands were moving restlessly now across the fabric covering Dean’s back. Oh, great, now he was using Dean for inspiration—if Cas tried to wrestle _him_ down on his back like this, he was gonna get his skull thumped for his trouble. He could feel the heat of Cas’s hands through his shirt and the way they flexed whenever Dean pressed against him a certain way or teased him with his tongue. One hand stayed on his shoulder, pulling him down since Dean wouldn’t let him up, while the other skated down his side, across his back to dig into the flesh just above his waistband, and then down—

Dean tore his mouth away from Cas’s, jerking back with a strangled yell of indignation as he reached around and grabbed Cas’s wrist and yanked his hand away and _off_ his ass, thank you very much. He pinned his hand up near his head, glaring down at him until Cas’s dazed look slowly started to clear.

The torrent of outraged cussing he’d been about to unleash on the grabby bastard evaporated when he suddenly realized that Cas was on his back. On the bed. And Dean was pretty much on top of him.

When the hell had _that_ happened?

He didn’t really have any time to consider it. As he sat there, frozen, he saw that Cas was opening and closing his mouth and trying to talk, but even worse he saw that familiar panic and shame settling in and _dammit_ , he didn’t want to see that anymore.

“Cas,” he managed, and was really annoyed that his own voice was shaky and he was a little breathless himself. “Slow. The fuck. _Down._ ”

Cas’s eyes cut to the side. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, but then he quickly looked back to him, his eyes wary, as if he expected Dean to hit him for it.

Dean resisted the urge to roll his own eyes, because this one was actually something he could apologize for— _should_ apologize for, the handsy bitch—and released his wrist. He stared down at Cas, trying to figure out just what he needed to do next—and the solution quickly presented itself. Cas on his back underneath him—that needed to be remedied immediately, because that was Not Acceptable.

Dean still had one arm around and underneath his skinny frame, so he grit his teeth and shifted off him, wiggling around until he had room to roll on his side and drag Cas with him. Cas winced a little when he landed, and Dean stilled and waited for him to adjust himself so he wasn’t sitting on any bruises or anything. Unfortunately, once he stopped wiggling that just left them both there on their sides facing each other, inches apart because they were both crammed into this tiny twin bed, Dean’s hand resting on Cas’s hip. In bed together.

He was in _bed_ with _Cas_.

Dean tensed when Cas’s hand suddenly came up again, and he didn’t relax even when he just…touched his neck. He wasn’t looking at Dean’s face; he was staring at the spot he was stroking, his hand moving slowly over the bare skin sticking out of the neck of his shirt. For a moment, Dean rather pointlessly wondered how the hell his hands could be that soft after all the shit he’d been through before he remembered: angel, frozen in one state until just yesterday. Right.

Cas’s thumb was right at the base of his throat, just rubbing in a way that wasn’t unpleasant (though it was weird), and then the rest of his hand dipped lower, catching the edge of his shirt and tugging it down a bit as his palm pressed against Dean’s collarbone. His hand still didn’t stop moving, trailing back up to his throat until his fingers rested on the side of his neck where his pulse was, and Dean could feel his own heartbeat throbbing against them.

It was a little startling when Cas suddenly met his eyes again, and that annoyed him; Cas had no right to friggin’ _mesmerize_ him. He also had no right to somehow make him hold his breath for a second when he looked at him like that. And where the hell did he get off pushing closer and kissing him again?

He was so busy staring at Cas like an idiot that he forgot to actually start kissing back for a minute. But he finally did, going back to taking it as slow as possible. His eyes started to fall closed and he let them, just concentrating on the way Cas’s fingers kept stroking his cheek and his jaw and his throat, his kisses shallow and small again. There was a pause where Cas rested his forehead against his own and just breathed slowly, but then his mouth was back and that same damn fluttery heat came back too when Cas decided to show off what he’d learned, the tip of his tongue carefully (if a bit clumsily) tracing along Dean’s lower lip for just a moment before he went back to his soft, shy little kisses, his fingers moving to the hair at the back of his neck to try and direct him just like Dean had done to him.

Well, _that_ wasn’t happening, because Dean was the one in charge here. He did let himself be pulled closer, but only ‘cause that’s what _he_ wanted to do, and his own hand gripped Cas’s hip and tugged him forward as well, and then he was all up close and warm against his chest and Dean was unable to stop the sigh that escaped him. Dean wiggled until he freed up the arm he was laying on, sliding it forward until his fingers found the flesh of Cas’s neck. He curled his fingers around to the nape, pausing a moment when he felt Cas’s pulse against his palm—Jesus Christ, it was pounding so fast it felt like he was about to have a coronary!—before getting his hand back in his hair. Cas shivered, and his kisses got a little faster, a little deeper, and Dean braced himself for another attack, but apparently Cas managed to restrain himself for a change.

Dean moved his other hand, mostly so he wouldn’t be gripping his hip anymore, and he came in contact with more skin—Cas’s shirt was riding up again. Without thinking about it, he slid his hand upwards over Cas’s flat but soft stomach and traced his fingers up over his ribs before he once again remembered with exasperation that there wasn’t actually anything up under there worth fondling. He paused, his hand pressed lightly against his ribs, but then just gave a weary mental shrug and kept going. Dean couldn’t help his uncomfortable twitch when his hand encountered the big expanse of nothing where there _should’ve_ been something, dammit. But, no, it was all skinny and flat, no nice handful waiting for him. At least he was slim and smooth, Dean reflected, there was that, which was good; if Cas had quantum leaped himself into some big, hairy, Ron Jeremy lookalike, this so would not be happening.

When Dean’s thumb ran across his sorry excuse for a nipple, Cas’s breath hitched and his tongue was suddenly was suddenly out and pushing forward, but Dean was ready for him and met his seeking tongue with his own, refusing to give way until he’d pressed back enough to make him quiet down again. _Jeez_ , he thought vaguely to himself as Cas broke off to pant and shudder against him, _you’d think he actually had something to second-base._

When Cas blundered forward again, he only caught the corner of Dean’s mouth. _Come on, man, pay attention—it’s hard to miss._ But then he realized no, he hadn’t missed, because then he was dragging his mouth down across Dean’s jaw and, despite the unsettling scratch of his stubble, Dean couldn’t help his own intake of breath and sudden shiver when Cas’s lips found his neck, and—oh, fuck, why did that have to feel that way…

It didn’t matter that Cas was new at it and was a fucking _dude_ —having his neck macked on was something Dean always loved and now wasn’t an exception, but it was somehow _different_ , because it was just…it was _Cas_ , and the thick heat in his middle was mixed with something else—that _whatever_ it was that made him feel something for Cas, and God, he was losing focus—something was just swelling up and fogging his brain, making him…

Feeling like he was in some kind of strange dream, he moved his fingers restlessly through Cas’s hair while his other hand circled around and down to press against Cas’s lower back, the skin there hot, and he pulled him closer. He tilted his head back, sinking into the pillow and exposing his throat to the seeking lips moving over it; he wanted to focus but that really wasn’t possible because Cas was clumsy and inexperienced and really didn’t seem to quite know what he was doing but it didn’t matter because the way he kissed and licked and sucked and bit him was driving him crazy and the slow heat unwound in his middle spread from his chest all the way down to his gut. Dean’s own hands had started wandering again, and when he squeezed Cas’s ass, the sharp intake of breath cooled the flesh of his neck and then the shaky exhale warmed it back up, and dammit, that was an accident, but it didn’t matter because it made Dean _mmm_ softly all the same.

And then Cas’s mouth was back on his, frantic and wild again, but this time when his lips parted Dean met him, matching his ridiculous enthusiasm in full. He felt a knee bump his, and then let him slide it forward between his legs, rubbing against the insides of his thighs. Dean felt hot—way too hot, and his jeans were getting tight and uncomfortable, and he wasn’t sure when he’d gotten both of his hands up under Cas’s shirt, but there it was. Really, he didn’t mind _too_ much that there wasn’t any important stuff worth grabbing, because there was still _skin_ there, something warm and soft to touch—and because it was _Cas_ , and every movement of Dean’s questing fingers made Cas tremble and moan against his mouth. He could feel one of Cas’s hands on his waist, hot against his flesh, and he really didn’t have much time to wonder who told Cas he could get up under there because he was back to his neck, his eager wet mouth brushing over the all those same sweet spots and Dean didn’t have room in his brain for much else right now.

Dean felt a vague sort of outrage when he barely stopped himself from _whining in protest_ when Cas’s mouth left his neck, but at least some corner of his brain managed to wake up and realize that Cas was tugging restlessly at the edge his shirt. He was apparently having trouble getting both his hands up under the tight hem, so Dean raised up to help. The room went briefly dark as fabric obscured his eyes, and then it was over his head and gone and he laid back down and pulled Cas with him, and he just started back up with the hollow between Dean’s collarbones and things were great again. Christ, his hands were everywhere, and they were so damn hot—every time he’d touched Cas before he’d been cold, distant, an _angel_ , but now he was here and human and _hot_ , burning Dean’s flesh every time he touched him. He reached down again with both hands this time and yanked Cas forward by his ass, feeling the sound of surprised pleasure against his mouth where Cas was kissing him, and Dean didn’t really care about the groan that escaped him ‘cause he’d just driven the knee that was still between his legs further up until it rubbed just right.

His hands skated up under Cas’s shirt again, pulling the hem up as he did. The motion sparked the idea, and a second later he’d bunched up the edge in his hands and tugged insistently upwards. Cas got the idea quick enough and sat up. Dean was amused when he all but tore it off of himself, flinging it away before practically falling back on top of him with a gasp that Dean heard himself echo when he suddenly felt so much skin against his own. Cas’s chest was flat but his stomach was soft and pressed against his as Dean stroked up and down his back, dragging his fingertips up the column of his spine before splaying his hands across his shoulder blades, holding him tight, keeping every burning inch of him tight against his chest. Cas clung desperately back, his hands buried in Dean’s hair as he kissed him hard and long enough to leave him breathless. Dean managed to get a gulp of air before he pushed Cas’s shoulders back, leaning up and pressing his open mouth against his neck, lightly sucking all over and then going back to trace each spot with his tongue. Cas shivered and moaned as Dean breathed against his collarbone, dipping his tongue into the well at the base of his throat before moving lower. He knew there weren’t any tits to kiss but it didn’t really matter because Cas’s hitching breath was worth it and then he was forcing Dean’s mouth back up to his own and pressing him back against the pillows.

The knee between Dean’s thighs was driving him insane, and he writhed against it to try and relieve some of that agonizingly-delicious pressure, but all he wound up doing was tangling his legs up with Cas’s so that neither one of them could really move away. His hands blundered upward, trying to find purchase against Cas, desperate to find some way to push closer, harder, but then Cas’s hand found his and pushed it back and into the pillow beside his head, his fingers lacing with Dean’s and squeezing tight, tighter, and Dean squeezed back, feeling like it was the only thing anchoring him on the earth. And then a long, low moan escaped him as Cas’s hips ground down against his own as he slanted his mouth back down Dean’s neck and lower, marking out hot lines with his tongue that cooled in his wake. Dean was gonna go crazy or explode, one of the two, because then Cas’s teeth were on his throat and his hands were stroking and dragging across his chest and sides and Dean slid his own hands down Cas’s back to come to rest at his waist, his thumbs digging into the hollows of his hipbones and pulling him down harder against him even as he thrust his own hips up to meet him, and that heat simmered hotter in his belly when they both couldn’t help but groan.

 _God_ , his jeans were too tight, _way_ too tight, and things were gonna get ugly if he didn’t do something about it. He fumbled his way around between their hips, groping for his fly with one hand, and he managed to get his button open and then tried to work his zipper down, but Jesus, his fingers were like rubber and Cas was still moving on top of him, his hips rocking and pushing against him with nearly unbearable friction, and that hard ridge of flesh was rubbing against Dean’s hip as he moved—

His eyes shot open.

_HOLY MOTHERFUCKING SHIT!_

The sudden realization of exactly what was going on and exactly what he was doing and _exactly what was touching him_ slammed into him so hard he couldn’t breathe for a second. Then he was twisting and thrashing, struggling to get his hand up so he could push Cas off and push—push _that_ the fuck away from him! Cas didn’t notice, and _oh Jesus Christ_ , why was he on his back, _when_ had Cas gotten him on his back?! _What the fuck was he_ doing _?!_ His hand was still pinned between their hips—because he’d been down there _unzipping his pants, oh fuck fuck fuck_ , and he finally managed to yank it up and— _no, no, no, please say that was not what—_

Dean’s eyes flew upwards wildly up at the sound of Cas’s strangled gasp, and his entire body seemed to seize up the second Dean’s hand touched him. Cas’s hands had flailed up to grip Dean’s arms, and Dean caught sight of his face, all shock and rapture as he stared down between them, his mouth hanging open, his whole body trembling violently. Before Dean could even try to move again, his head snapped up, meeting Dean’s eyes with his own, and that fiery look was blazing on his face and he was way, _way_ beyond reason now—

Cas’s hips jerked again, thrust forward against Dean’s hand, and both of them shuddered, this time though for entirely different reasons. But Dean couldn’t move, was frozen on the spot, struggling to do _something_ —throw him off? Hit him? _What?!_

A plaintive moan snapped him back to attention; Cas’s face was buried against his neck right under his chin and he was shaking and writhing and _panting_ on him, his fingers flexing on his arms as he pushed against Dean, _rubbing_ himself against him, fucking _humping_ him, and he—he—

 _No!_ He—he couldn’t _do_ this! He could _not_ just—just grab another guy’s _dick_ —

A whimper cut through his panic, and the sound was so utterly desperate and just so completely _wrecked_ , and his gut twisted at the sound—

 _Cas. It’s just_ Cas _, goddammit!_ he snarled to himself, and when Cas next pulled away Dean felt the elastic band of his shorts, and then Cas thrust forward again and his fingers slid under and—oh, _fuck_ —

The low, guttural groan Cas gave was almost enough to distract Dean from the fact that he’d just reached into his pants and deliberately grabbed his cock.

Almost.

He wasn’t sure if it was a blessing or a curse that he at least didn’t—didn’t have to _move_ much or anything, because Cas seemed to be taking care of things all on his own, driving his whole _body_ against Dean’s hand, and Dean mused crazily that this might have been the noisiest he’d ever heard Cas as he made all kinds of girly gasps and cries against his skin that made him almost sound like he was sobbing.

The whole thing was horrible and gross and embarrassing and just _surreal_ because Dean _really_ hadn’t wanted to do this, but the way it was, with the way Cas was grinding down against his own hips and making that horribly tantalizing pressure and _rubbing_ , his own hard-on hadn’t subsided at all, was getting _worse_ if anything, and—Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, _what the hell was he doing_ —?!

“ _Dean…_ ”

Dean had never heard his name moaned like that in his entire life. He felt it against his throat, adoring and desperate and _worshiping_ , Cas’s voice thick and shaky and his hitching breath so hot, and the sound of it shot through him and he felt his own arm tighten around Cas’s shoulder and then he felt his hand _move_ , his fingers tightening slightly around—

Cas’s hand clenched hard on Dean’s arm with bruising force, and his whole body just seized up and too late Dean realized what—

Cas let out an almost agonized wail, his hips thrusting helplessly, and Dean felt something hot and thick spurting all over his hand.

No.

That was not “something.”

Cas had just jizzed on him.

Cas had gone silent and still, the only sound in the room his hoarse panting, but Dean didn’t really notice. He couldn’t seem to move. He couldn’t even pull his hand out of Cas’s shorts. His brain was too numb, and all he could hear was what was running through it on repeat like a broken record.

_You just gave a dude a handjob._

_You just jerked Cas off._

_Your hand is covered in angel spunk._

Oh, Jesus Fucking Christ in a sidecar.

_His hand was covered in angel spunk._

Because he’d just given Cas a handjob. He’d jerked him off. He’d—

The sudden surge of nausea was the first thing that kicked in as his brain slowly began to reboot, because this was fucking disgusting. Sensory input started filtering in, and with it his dick just kind of wilted, his balls trying to crawl up inside of him as he suddenly was so aware of _everything_. Now he deliberately kept himself still because if he moved he might puke because then he’d feel it all over him, hot and sticky and gross, even more than he already was and that was too much. _Everything_ was too much right now. What was all over his hand was too much. The way Cas was curled against him with his face buried in his neck was too much. The way his ragged breaths puffed against his skin was too much. The way Cas’s trembling hand had come to rest on his bare chest was too much. The fact that he had a bare chest at _all_ was too much. The fact that Cas _also_ had a bare chest was too much. The fact that he’d somehow been rolled onto his back was too much. The fact that his hand was still down the front of Cas’s shorts was too much. The fact that he could feel that the button on his jeans undone and the zipper halfway down was too much. The fact that he was lying in bed with a post-orgasmic and definitely _male_ ex-angel on _top_ of him was too much.

Too much. _This was all too fucking much._

No, what was too fucking much was when he felt Cas’s hand move, start shakily brushing down his torso, and only when he got to Dean’s stomach did he finally realize what he was doing.

That did it.

The _hell_ Cas was gonna touch his dick!

He was suddenly moving, shoving away and rolling as fast as he could out from under the limp guy on top of him. Only he kind of forgot that he was in a small-ass bed and so was right on the edge, and even though he swung his leg out to try and catch himself, he didn’t do it fast enough. With a painful grunt and an accompanying thud, he landed hard on the floor. But he didn’t stop moving; scrabbling up, he stumbled to his feet and bolted for the door, not looking behind him and certainly not looking down at his hand. As he flung himself out the door, his senseless fleeing suddenly gained purpose when he saw the open door at the end of the hallway. He didn’t care that he was probably thundering across the floor loud enough to wake up everyone else in the house; he just ran full-tilt for the bathroom, slamming and locking the door once he reached it and frantically twisting the hot water tap.

The water was still cold but he stuck his hand under it anyway and he felt his stomach twist and he felt sick when he finally _saw it_ , saw all the thick, sticky white shit smeared all over him—Jesus Christ, why did Cas have to be so—so _disgusting_?! _He_ wasn’t this nasty!

He scrubbed viciously at his hand with a washcloth and soap, rinsed off, and, even thought the water quickly heated up to nearly scalding, did it again until his hand was red and raw—he would’ve gladly scrubbed again if it wasn’t getting painful. Slamming off the water, he gripped the sides of the sink tightly, his eyes squeezed shut in his effort to get his nausea under control.

Had he really just done that?

Yes. Yes, he had. He _had_ done it.

His jaw clenched as he took deep, shaky breaths in through his nose.

It was still all _too much_. What— _that was not supposed to have happened!_ He had _not_ gone into that room to do that. The thought hadn’t even entered into his mind at all. In fact, he’d _purposefully been avoiding it_ , because _godfuckingdammit, he didn’t do that shit_!

 _Oh, but you_ do _, Winchester, and you_ did _, doesn’t matter you washed all the evidence down the sink_ , his mind jeered at him, and horribly, _that_ voice sounded like Sam, too.

After snarling that his subconscious could shove it up its ass (to which Snidely-Sam replied no, _Dean_ was obviously the one who did that kind of thing, and it made him want to shoot himself in the head just to shut it the fuck _up_ ), he counted to fifteen very slowly and finally opened his eyes. The black eye of the drain stared accusingly back at him as though asking why the hell Dean made it suck down all that nasty shit. He swallowed hard and slowly raised his head, forcing himself to look in the mirror.

He could barely look himself in the eye; when finally did, the image that greeted him was that of a shaky, pale, shame-faced, shirtless guy with his hair sticking up in all directions because he’d just let a dude have his way with him. He couldn’t hold his own gaze for long and looked back down, which wasn’t any better because he saw his fly was still open. Only fumbling a little, he zipped and buttoned his jeans again before making himself look back up, back into that mirror and back at himself.

Fuck him sideways, he had sex hair. Almost reflexively, he raised one of his hands to try and flatten down into some kind of order even as he looked at his mouth, which gave him away just as bad. He _reeked_ of sex, which was both stupid and unfair because he hadn’t fucking had any. But if anyone caught him in here, they’d know—they’d know _exactly_ what he’d been up to, from the way his hair was mussed to the way his lips were swollen to the dark red bruise where his neck met his shoulder—

_Wait._

His eyes widened and he jerked his head to the side, leaning forward and grabbing the light over the mirror to switch it on. The light blinded him momentarily, but not long enough to miss it.

He had a hickey.

It wasn’t very big. But it was there, red and mottled and with faint _teeth marks_ surrounding it.

Cas had given him a hickey. A very obvious hickey. That people could _see_.

_He had a fucking hickey!_

Outraged fury surged up from his gut so quickly that it momentarily reduced him to a quivering tower of frozen indignation. But it didn’t last long, and in two strides he was at the door, nearly yanking the doorknob right off before he remembered he’d locked it, and once he got it unlocked he wrenched it open and was storming down the hall, his fists clenched and shaking, and he was going to go right back into that room and he was going to beat the feather stuffing out of _that fucking angel_.

Dean was almost sorry he’d left the door open in his haste to get away; kicking it open would’ve been really satisfying. Instead, he just burst through the doorway, one hand shooting out to slam it shut—

…And there was Cas, sitting up in the bed, his pale torso bright in the dim room, his hair a complete mess, looking sleepy and sated and still a little stunned but that _worry_ was back, his eyes all big and forlorn as he anxiously twisted Dean’s discarded shirt in his hands, just sitting there waiting for Dean to come back and beat him up.

Okay. The only reason he wasn’t gonna do it was because he didn’t want to touch Cas again tonight—but he really _wanted_ to strangle Cas, and it was the thought that counted.

He marched stiffly across the room to the bed and reached down to snatch his shirt from Cas’s hands, not really caring that it was pretty ridiculous to be feeling naked in front of him right now. He briskly shook it out and pulled it over his head, doing his best to ignore his burning face and neck, a sensation that only got worse as all they could do was just sit there and stare at each other in silence. Dean badly wanted someone to say _something_ , but he had no idea what to say and was pretty sure he didn’t want to hear anything Cas would probably dream up.

Oh, look, Cas read his mind and started talking.

“You’re upset,” he said tentatively.

 _Oh, yes, that_ would _be the first thing he’d say—and you have no fucking idea, you little pisswah!_ Dean snarled to himself. Well, at least he didn’t say he was sorry, though he had a feeling that was not far behind. But he wanted no apologies, especially not now, and he didn’t want to go to sleep knowing that Cas would probably sit in here all night sobbing in his pillow because woe is him, Dean hated him. Rubbing his hand on the back of his neck, he took a breath through his nose, and managed to meet Cas’s eyes.

“Look,” he began, really not wanting to say this but saying it anyway, telling himself that it was stupid it was to be embarrassed about _words_ after what they’d just _done_ , “if you—if you really did talk with Sam this morning about…this, then you—know that I’m—I’m not _upset_ , I just, uh…” He coughed uncomfortably. “…have to get used to…it.”

Despite seeming to understand what he was being told, Cas still looked all worried and fretful. “If…what happened—I didn’t mean—”

Dean quickly raised a hand to silence him—no, no, _no_ , he did _not_ want to hear Cas talk about _that_. “Cas, don’t,” he said flatly. “Just—seriously, don’t. I just have to…get used to…to things…being like…like this.” He paused, his arms crossed tightly across his chest as he tried to figure out what else to say.

His next words suddenly sprang to mind like he’d been struck by lightning. “Just do _not_ talk to _anyone_ about this,” he ordered adamantly. “I mean it—no one. _No one_ needs to…to _know_ about this.” _Especially Sam_ , he wanted to viciously add, and for a moment he almost did, because Cas already blabbed God knew what to him, and if he said _anything_ about _this_ to his brother, he was gonna kill him over and over again. But he didn’t, because while Sam was the top priority, everyone else was pretty top priority, too. “Just don’t talk about it,” he repeated forcefully.

Cas just nodded, staring pitifully at the ground by Dean’s feet. Dean grimaced, turning away from him, and spotted a crumpled T-shirt nearby. _Goddammit, don’t throw my clothes on the floor_ , he groused and, ignoring how his cheeks were burning, bent down and picked it up from the floor. “Here,” he grunted, tossing it at Cas. “Put that back on.” He did as he was told (as usual), and Dean shoved his hands in his pockets.

Cas finally looked back up at him, and Dean nearly groaned aloud when he saw he was still anxious and fretful, because he seemed to think he couldn’t do anything now that didn’t deserve a good beating after it was done. “Cas, stop being so—I’m not mad at you, dammit,” he said gruffly. Okay, so he was, but Cas didn’t need to know that. “I said I’d get used to it, all right? Just give me some time and we’ll—” He closed his eyes, took in a breath through his nose, and then stared as hard as he could at Cas as he steeled himself to say it. “We’re fine, Cas. This is—it’s _fine_.”

It wasn’t, not really—it wasn’t _at all_ , it wasn’t okay, and Dean was never, _ever_ going to get used to what had just happened because he was gonna make sure it never fucking happened _again_ —but it didn’t matter because Cas believed it. Dean could tell; his eyes just seemed to light right up and most of his gloom lifted and for a few seconds all Dean could see was that ridiculous hope and devotion and all those other things Cas felt for Dean that he patently did not want to think about again for the rest of the night, because all those things looking out at him from those big blue eyes had led to him getting horizontal with a _guy_.

“Now just—” No. He was not going to tell Cas to go to bed or go to sleep because every single time he said that they wound up doing— “‘Night,” he blurted out and then turned to leave.

“Good night, Dean.” Cas’s voice was quiet and tired, but Dean still heard the adoration and, oh, for fuck’s sake, _gratitude_.

He just nodded vaguely in Cas’s direction before making his escape, slipping out of the door and pulling it closed behind him.

Before he could _truly_ escape and run down the stairs, he had to pause and lean heavily against the now closed door because the effort of _not_ letting his rather wobbly legs roll up like window shades in front of Cas had taken quite a bit out of him. He closed his eyes, dragging his hand— _definitely_ not _that_ hand—across his face.

_What the fuck, man?_

After stopping himself from thumping the back of his skull against the door a few times because Cas was an idiot and would probably think he was knocking, he pushed himself away from the rough wood and shuffled downstairs, his brain feeling like mush. He managed to snap to some clarity when he rounded the stairs and spotted his brother, because panic tightened in his chest—oh shit, all that noise, _had he woken up?!_ ¬—but no, he was still asleep, his face turned towards the back of the couch against the cushions. He calmed down (a little), just standing in the room and staring at Sam, his arms hanging limply by his sides.

_You like pussy. And you like Cas._

“Screw you anyway, Sammy,” his whispered into the darkness.

This all really wasn’t fair. Why was everybody so fine with this? This wasn’t something to be fine with. _He_ certainly wasn’t fine with it! Maybe they wouldn’t be quite so fine with it either if they were the ones who had to go make out with a dude!

He twisted his head sharply to the side at the thought, as if trying to dislodge it. No—they simply didn’t get it because they were _stupid_ and had no grasp of the situation.

 _Well, you certainly do have a_ grasp _on it, don’t you?_

Goddammit, if his inner monologue did shit like that one more time, he was going to take a power drill to his ear.

Cramming his hands back into his pockets, Dean glared down at Sam because there was no one else convenient, before he remembered with something like horror just how much Sam knew about all this. Oh yes, he knew _way_ too much, because he’d sat there today and chatted it up with Cas _all_ about this, so this was all his fault, too, Dean decided. He remembered his previous plans for all the ways he was gonna make his bitch little brother pay, and he was already getting a few _new_ ideas just watching him here, because he was asleep and Dean was wide awake, and there were all _kinds_ of things he could do just here—

But then he realized that no, there was absolutely nothing he needed to do. He’d already had his revenge.

Because those were _Sam’s_ shorts that Cas was wearing. Just knowing that Sam would be walking around in those shorts after they’d been angelically defiled was enough.

His shoulders slumped a little—he was simultaneously grossed out, vindictively pleased, and disappointed that his night of potential revelry and havoc had been put off. Oh well. He was tired anyway. Sighing irritably, he turned and made his way quietly out of the room and towards the back door. He figured he’d sleep in the Impala tonight. He really wanted to be alone for a while—and he _definitely_ didn’t want to get waylaid tomorrow morning like he had today. But first, he needed to find his jacket—no way he was gonna let _anyone_ here see what was on his neck.

And he had to wash his hands.


	7. Kyrie (Castiel Interlude 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel finally understands.

Castiel knows what it is like to die; he has, after all, done it thrice. He knows that fleeting eternity of pain, and then the black oblivion that follows after. But now he cannot help but think that humans are wrong: this is no “little death,” this blinding white heat and light that obscures his vision and leaves him suspended, weightless, consumed from the inside with such burning ecstasy. The closest he can come to compare is not his death, but his _birth_ , that first moment when he came into being with the praises of his Father upon his lips. He wonders if that is why humans cry out his Father’s name during this ultimate act of Creation, that instant when they hold the power of Life in their hands as only these magnificent beings made in GOD’s image can.

But it is not his Father to whom Castiel cries out in that moment of glorious rapture, but rather the name of the one under whose hands he is come undone and remade.

_Dean…_

The rest of the world slowly trickles back into his senses, but he is only aware of _Dean_ , of the marvelous strength of the flesh he once thought weak, of the heat and power and light and life of him, but most wonderful of all, of the wild beating of his heart. It thrums though him, in the pulse beneath his lips and the thump beneath his hand, and it beats hard and fast, and Castiel feels that unfamiliar sting behind his now human eyes as he realizes that it beats so fast for _him_ , that after all that he has done, Dean’s heart is still here and beating for _him_. And then his human eyes spill over when he realizes that his own human heart is beating so hard and fast, too, that he is no longer angel or devil because he _has_ a heart…and it is _Dean_ who has given it to him.

His eyes fall closed, and he listens to Dean’s heart beat, and listens to his own heart as it beats in return. All that Castiel is can never repay Dean for what he has given him, what he has _made_ him, but it is all he has to offer, and so he offers it to him now, his greatest treasure, and all that he has:

_Dean, this is my heart._


	8. Life Still Goes On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam talks Cas through the Dean Situation, and finds that yes, once again, Dean has found a way to drag him into his romantic entanglements.

* * *

Sam woke up with a crick in his neck. Again.

Wincing, he swung his legs to the floor and sat up, reaching for the ceiling in a bone-popping stretch and yawning before flopping his arms back down, rubbing his slightly-achy shoulder with a sigh. He probably wouldn’t be so stiff if he’d just sleep on the floor, but he’d hated doing that ever since they’d been squatting in an empty house outside of San Antonio when he was ten and he’d woken up to find that a bull snake nearly as long as he’d been tall had crawled into his sleeping bag with him.

He’d screamed like a girl just from the shock of it; Dean had been no help at all and instead had just rolled on the floor laughing his ass off and leaving Sam to deal with the thing himself. He hadn’t been scared of snakes then and still wasn’t now, but the whole experience had rather soured him on sleeping on the floor. He occasionally lied to himself by saying that he liked to stay up off the floor because it was easier to get to his feet in an emergency, but the truth of it was that he just didn’t want anything with too many or not enough legs crawling in bed with him.

Sam didn’t bother pulling on his socks; he just pushed himself up off the sagging cushions and made his way towards the kitchen, his bare feet slapping against the equally bare floor.

But he paused just inside the doorway, awash with a vague feeling of déjà vu—the kitchen table had a single, slope-shouldered occupant sitting with his back to him just like yesterday morning.

Only not quite—the narrow frame and the omnipresent rough canvas coat meant that it couldn’t be anyone but Castiel sitting there. Sam moved into the room, coming round the table with a casual, “Morning.”

Cas looked up; Sam wasn’t sure if he’d surprised him or not, not with his motions that were always so deliberate, his features always so neutral. “Hello, Sam,” he said quietly, and then turned his head back to stare out the window at nothing.

Sam leaned down to better see his face; it revealed nothing, of course. “You all right?”

He felt compelled to ask, and not just because he could still see half-healed cuts on the few parts of him that his suit and coat didn’t cover, abrasions that no doubt continued down all over the rest of him. No, he had to ask because of yesterday.

* * *

When Dean oh-so-subtly fled the room with his tail between his legs when Cas showed up, he left the angel to watch him go with soulful eyes and Sam and Bobby to look at each other with no little discomfort.

Bobby broke the silence by roughly clearing his throat and then pushing his chair back with a loud scrape and standing up. “So, anyway—breakfast.”

“Yeah, sounds good,” Sam answered, and Bobby shambled his way over to the pantry. The room was in short order filled with the clattering of pots and pans, the crinkle of plastic, and the grind of a can opener. Sam would have offered to help, but anyone who tried to mess in Bobby’s kitchen while Bobby was in it always got the stinkeye, so Sam stayed put and, a bit unwillingly, found himself studying Castiel.

Sam still didn’t know exactly what had happened yesterday. Dean was as uncommunicative as ever; in fact, he was even worse than usual this morning. Trust Dean to completely ignore whatever earth-shattering cataclysm he’d survived in the course of saving the world in favor of tying himself in knots over his…other issues. Cas had looked like shit warmed over when they’d dragged him home, beat to hell and bleeding all over the place. But this morning he’d been in much better shape. His clothes were clean, courtesy of Bobby, if oddly ragged and singed in some places. Plus, Dean was a good field medic, so Cas himself had been scrubbed up and most of the cuts on his cheeks and neck and lip had already scabbed over. If he’d always been human, Sam would have said that he looked pretty good.

Thing was, he hadn’t always been human, and seeing Cas all banged up and not just instantly healing himself was weird.

Sam was indeed relieved and happy and grateful to have his friend back when Dean had finally done whatever he did to make Cas release the souls he’d been holding onto. But this morning, now that the relief had worn off…

Yeah. Sitting alone at the table with the psycho who had been trying to kill him for the past year was more awkward than the morning after a drunken one-night stand.

Sam had no idea what to say; truth be told, he didn’t really _want_ to talk to Cas, even though he tried to tell himself that it hadn’t really been the Cas they knew who’d been after them. The real Cas was here now and he knew it, but it was still hard. He found himself rather painfully identifying with Bobby a year and a half ago right after he got his soul back. Didn’t matter how much you cared about someone, it was still hard to get over them going full-on Jack Torrance and trying to kill you.

As such, they just sat in strained silence until Bobby stumped back over with bowls of fried baloney and beans—hunter staples. The two of them dug in with a right good will, mostly just to not have to look at or talk to anyone—specifically, to Cas.

Both of them had been eating for a minute or two at least before they were finally forced to acknowledge the fact that Cas wasn’t eating. Instead, he was staring rather dully at the bowl in front of him.

Bobby was the one who finally decided that was enough of that and roughly demanded, “Well, are you just gonna sit there starin’ at it?”

Cas looked up, and then quickly looked away. He started fidgeting and shifting in his seat until finally he looked up again. His eyes darted between Sam and Bobby before he finally said in a very small voice, “I…owe you both…an apology.”

Sam and Bobby just stared at each other, and then Bobby gave a rough snort. “No shit you do,” he said bluntly. “What the hell were you thinkin’?”

Cas was looking at the table again, and Sam could only marvel at how his expressionless face still managed to convey such misery. He looked up at them both again, his eyes still cutting away, and wetted his lips and haltingly said, “I…uh…‘fucked up’.”

Sam couldn’t help the single rough laugh that escaped him. “Yeah, I’d say you did,” he agreed.

Cas had picked up his spoon and was prodding the beans in the bowl in front of him. “I was…I was trying to keep you safe…from Raphael, from Crowley…you had all given so much, and I…I couldn’t ask you for more. I thought I could handle it myself.” The spoon clattered to the table and he looked up. “But I…lost sight of that, and then…” he trailed of rather helplessly.

Sam felt a sudden, reflexive twist of sympathy in his middle, the first he had for Cas since they’d gotten him back. “Yeah, well, you’re not so special, there—I did the same thing,” he said. “Almost destroyed the world because of it, too.” Cas looked up, his brow furrowed; Sam gave him a wry smile in return. “We all have our fuck-ups now and again—some are just bigger than others. But, I fixed it, and put things back, and now so did you—so it’s all right now,” he finished with a dismissive shrug, and then went back to polishing off the remains of his breakfast.

Cas was still just staring at him, and his expression could only be called one of disbelief. “How—” he started, and then he had to stop and swallow, and Sam could almost swear that there were tears in his eyes. “That you can just…forgive me, after what I did…it…” He looked away. “You all remind me daily why humans truly are the greatest of God’s creations,” he said quietly.

Sam found himself vaguely uncomfortable with the level of near-veneration in his voice. Bobby, of course, wasn’t fazed at all and just made a growling sound in his throat. “Well, that’s fine, but you make a habit of that kind of crap and you’ll find we won’t be so forgiving next time,” he informed him. Cas looked at him briefly, and then nodded.

“Here.” Sam picked up his spoon and put it back in Cas’s hand. “You’re one of us now—have to live like us. Eat up,” he instructed.

After a moment more, Cas rather stiltedly took a bite—and then promptly shoveled the rest in with alarming speed, Bobby and Sam watching him in surprise.

“Hungry?” Bobby asked dryly as he scraped his bowl.

“Yes, I…believe so,” Cas answered in all seriousness.

Bobby just gave Sam a look and then heaved himself up to deposit their used dishes in the sink.

“Did you save some for Dean?” Sam called over his shoulder to him.

“Pfft—I know better than to come between that boy and food,” Bobby retorted. “But if I didn’t, it’d be his own fault for runnin’ out like that.”

And it had been then, as Sam turned back around in his seat, that he spotted Cas’s expression dropping like a bad soufflé. Oh, he’d been all contrite-looking before, but at the mere mention of Dean, his face had taken on the look of a wet weekend.

 _Oh, crap._ What had Dean said to him?

Whatever might or might not have been going through his brother’s head last night after Cas’s little…display, Sam knew for a fact that first and foremost Dean had been _pissed_. And with Dean’s virtuoso skill in putting his foot in his mouth and the way he’d been on the edge of a complete meltdown this morning…well.

“Did—ah—did you—talk to Dean last night? About—that?” he asked Cas with forced casualness as Bobby sat back down across from him. “You know, apologize to him, too, and everything?”

“Yes.” Cas’s flat tone was not at all encouraging.

Sam’s eyebrows lifted, and he looked at Bobby before asking Cas, “And…are you two…okay?”

“I don’t know.” Cas’s face was doleful. “I apologized, and he said that he had forgiven me…but I think he’s still angry.”

“Well, you did stab us all in the back pretty damn good,” Bobby said dryly. “We’ll forgive ya, but it takes a while to forget.”

“But…” Cas was struggling. “He said that he didn’t care about it, because we…because I was family.”

Sam blew out a breath through his nose. “You are, Cas,” he assured him. “I wouldn’t worry about Dean. He just…he needs a little time,” he hedged. “But he’s…not all that complicated. If he says he forgave you, then he did. That’s just the way he is.”

Cas looked up at him with a troubled expression. “I thought so too,” he said, and Sam was appalled to hear him continue with, “but then he got upset and left so abruptly after we—”

Sam jumped at the sudden loud squeal of chair legs on the floor. “Well!” Bobby was saying with false brightness as he stood. “I need to get back to work; Cas, if anyone can help you sort things out with Dean, it’s Sam, here—I’ll be in the basement if you need me.”

Sam’s jaw dropped. _No—he wasn’t. He wouldn’t._

But he _was_! The miserable old turd was _bailing_ on him, leaving him here with Cas wanting to talk about his brother and—Jesus _Christ_!

Oh, and he knew exactly what he was doing, too—Bobby couldn’t resist peering over his shoulder as he scuttled through the basement door, and as Sam stared disbelievingly back at him with his jaw clenched in outrage, just before he disappeared Bobby _smirked_ at him.

That sorry, moth-eaten old _bastard_.

And so here they were, Sam frozen with indignation and hideously discomfort, with Cas looking at him with anxious eyes and wanting to talk about _Dean_.

He was pretty sure that this counted as all the punishment he might have ever racked up for every bad deed he’d ever done in his life, up to and including almost destroying the world.

Sam closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, and took a deep breath before opening his eyes to face Cas. “You—you still think Dean is mad?” he tried for openers.

Cas’s eyes dropped down to the tabletop again. “I don’t know,” he said. “He seemed angry, but he said he wasn’t, and when I tried to apologize he just became angry again, and I…” He trailed off, looking lost.

Jesus—one emotionally repressed idiot and one emotionally stunted idiot. The possibilities for disaster were endless. And here Sam had to try to unravel them. _Thanks, Dean_ , he thought wryly. “Did he—did he say _why_ he was angry?” he asked delicately.

Cas’s brow furrowed. “Not really,” he said slowly.

Sam dropped his head, took a fortifying breath, and without looking up, asked in a flat voice, “What did you talk about?”

Cas was silent, and when Sam dared to look up, he was alarmed to see that Cas’s apparent depression was warring with something like panic. “He said,” he started, faltered, and then tried again. “When I tried to tell him that I…couldn’t be trusted with free will, he said that…no one will tell me what to do. That I—that I have to accept the responsibility for my actions…for as long as I’ll live.” His Adam’s apple bobbed, and he looked up at Sam with a frightened expression.

 _Huh—and here I thought Dean had forgotten all the serious stuff in favor of his own personal crisis._ It didn’t take a genius to realize that Cas had lapsed a bit with regards to his championing the cause of free will. And after the shit he’d gotten up to in having it, Sam couldn’t entirely blame him. But that didn’t mean that there was an easy out. “Well,” he said, trying to keep his voice gentle despite his blunt words, “he’s right.”

Cas’s head lowered again, and he just stared at his hands, not speaking.

Sam gave him a moment, and then prompted, “And…did you fight about that?”

“No—we didn’t…fight,” he said. He licked his lips. “I—Dean was angry with me, for…for not wanting to—to take the blame when I act wrongly, but I…I understand now.” Cas looked up suddenly, his eyes wide and pleading, and his next words came out in something of a rush. “But he said that you would help me—help me when I don’t know what to do—”

“Hey, easy!” Sam said, putting a hand on his shoulder without thinking about it. “Sure we will. Don’t worry about that—of course we’ll help you out. It’s okay.”

Cas quieted, looking at him with a distressingly grateful expression, and Sam clumsily patted him before pulling his hand away. “So,” he said bracingly, “I know Dean probably did get mad if you said you didn’t want to, you know, have free will anymore, but if you’ve got it now, it’ll be okay. He won’t stay mad.”

“He didn’t,” Cas agreed, and Sam’s brow furrowed.

“So he wasn’t mad after that?” he asked.

“No.” Cas’s expression was thoughtful. “He just told me that you would help me because we—we’re family.”

Sam felt a surge of rough affection for his brother; once you had his devotion, nothing could shake it. Didn’t matter if you let loose the Devil or tried to style yourself as the new God—if you came crawling back to him, he’d take your sorry ass back every time.

But that still didn’t explain why Cas was convinced that Dean was mad at him—and Sam had an awful suspicion that the reason had nothing to do with Cas’s bad trip and a whole lot more to do with what he and Dean had talked about this morning before Cas had woken up. Steeling himself, he asked, “Did you talk about anything after that?”

A furrow appeared in Cas’s brow, one that Sam found himself oddly pleased to see—somehow, seeing that again instead of that creepy-ass wooden serenity of his did more to set him at ease, to reassure him that this was the Cas he remembered, than anything else thus far. But then he opened his mouth and Sam stiffened, expecting the worst—but all he said was a slightly bewildered, “No. He left shortly after we finished talking. Only he was upset again.”

Well. Okay, so they might not have talked about anything to set Dean off—but there was no way in hell Sam was going to ask what they might have _done_ to set Dean off.

Casting around, Sam finally tried, “Uh, did you fight about anything else? You know, before that?”

Cas was still and quiet for a moment, his brow creased, and then he finally said, “We didn’t…fight…but Dean did shout at me.” The wrinkles in his forehead deepened. “He was particularly angry when I apologized…and when I said that I loved him.”

 _Oh, Jesus!_ Sam’s spine went rigid. _Okay, now we’re getting too much information, here—_

But before Sam had a chance to tell him to stop right there, Cas went on, sounding confused again. “But I don’t understand why. What I…what I did, even before I was under the influence of the souls, was wrong, and I needed to apologize.” Sam relaxed minutely, only to stiffen again when Cas went on, still perplexed. “And I still don’t know why, if he cares for me as family, why he should be so displeased that I care for him too.”

Sam blinked, and then—oh, no. Oh, _no_. This—this was bad. This was very, very bad. Now everything suddenly made a whole lot of _awful_ sense. Of all the crap that Cas had pulled that was all his fault…this one wasn’t. This one was all on Dean, because Cas _hadn’t_ —but Dean _had_ —oh, boy.

Now at least he knew why Dean had been about to go nuclear earlier. Dragging a hand over his face, he found himself once again praying for patience (which he knew was a useless endeavor) before girding himself to ask, as delicately as he could manage, “Cas…do you know…do you _understand_ …how Dean feels about you?”

Cas looked at him as if he was expecting a trick question. “He…loves me,” he said slowly.

 _Oh, God._ Sam looked skyward and could only ask, _Why me?_ He really hated Bobby right now—and he was starting to hate Dean, too; one way or another he always found a way to draw Sam into his…entanglements. Since he wasn’t finding new and creative ways to make sure that Sam caught him _in flagrante delicto_ , he had apparently moved on to a new form of torture: forcing Sam to put on his tichel and play Yente the Matchmaker. With a _guy_.

Pursing his lips, Sam took another breath and said, “Yeah, he does, but it’s not quite like family.” At Cas’s concerned look, he went on. “There are different ways humans can care about each other. And Dean—he does care about you, but—” _damnitall—_ “he’s _confused_.”

And he wasn’t the only one. Cas was looking at him like he was speaking Esperanto. “He’s confused,” Sam tried to clarify, “because…he normally only feels that way about _women_.”

Cas stared at him. “I don’t understand.”

Oh, hell. See, this? This was not funny. “Well, you’re not a woman, Cas.”

Cas seemed to be waiting for the other shoe to drop. “No,” he said after a moment.

“You’re a man, Cas,” Sam said flatly.

Cas’s brows knitted. “No.”

 _Shit._ “Yeah you are,” he said firmly.

Cas was shaking his head. “No, I’m not,” he insisted. “My vessel is male. I’m not.”

“You know that,” Sam said, pointing towards him, “and I know that,” he went on, pointing at his own chest, “—but Dean doesn’t. And the rest of the world won’t know that, either, ‘cause you’re stuck in that vessel, so that’s pretty much you now. For all intents and purposes, you’re a man.” He held out his hands. “That’s just the way it is. So you’d better get used to it.”

Cas looked at him, and then looked down, clearly turning this notion over in his mind. And then, almost as if he’d flipped a switch, Sam suddenly saw in his eyes that he was beginning to connect the dots. “And…Dean doesn’t care for men?” he asked.

“Not like he cares about you,” Sam said, relief beginning to fill his chest. Finally, he was getting somewhere.

“Then…he doesn’t normally kiss men?”

“ _No!_ ” Sam shouted, recoiling and waving his hands wildly. _And we are_ done _here!_ “No, he doesn’t, and that is all I ever need to hear about what Dean does or doesn’t do with you, Cas!”

 _I am going to_ kill _Dean!_

Goddammit, he did it _again_! He wasn’t even _here_ , and yet Dean _still_ found a way to fill up Sam’s brain with all kinds of images that made him want to stick a fork in his ear! He buried his head in his hands with a pained groan.

You know what? Killing Dean was first on his list, but killing Cas would be nice too. And then Bobby, of course, for leaving him here with him. He looked up, only to find Cas looking at him with a distressed expression. _Now just what in the hell does that jolly little prick have to be upset about?_ Sam groused. He wasn’t the one who was going to have to go out and set himself on fire to get rid of the pictures that were running through his head—pictures that Cas had put there in the first place, he might add!

“Is—is there anything I can do?” Cas asked suddenly, sounding troubled. “I don’t want Dean to be unhappy.”

Sam stared at him, and then all his outrage flowed out of him in a rush. He gave a heavy sigh. “I don’t, either, Cas,” he said tiredly. “But—I really don’t think there’s anything you _can_ do, not this time.”

Cas stared at the table for a moment before looking back up at Sam. “Would—would Dean have been happier if I was in a female vessel?” he asked unsurely.

Sam gave a not entirely humorous snort. “I dunno about ‘happier,’ but I won’t lie to you—things definitely would’ve been _easier_ for him.” He looked down at his hands dangling between his knees, and when he looked back up at Cas, he managed a small smile. “But I don’t think he’s _unhappy_ —he’s just—he’s just gonna need some time to get used to it, is all.”

Cas turned to look concernedly down at his hands again, licking absent-mindedly at his split lip, and as he did another uncomfortable thought occurred to Sam. He fidgeted in his seat, trying to think of some way to ask it without feeling like he was passing notes in fourth grade. Eventually, remembering Dean’s state of crisis this morning got him to open his mouth. “So, uh,” he started, “…you don’t…have a problem or anything with Dean… _caring_ about you like that? Like—like he would for a woman?”

Cas looked up with his patented puzzled expression. “Why would I have a problem with that?” he asked blankly.

Sam held up his hands. “No reason,” he said with a tight-lipped smile. “Just asking.” He looked down and shook his head, and then back up at Cas. “Just…just let Dean work through things on his own…and I think things will be okay.”

Cas worried at his lip for a minute more, but then he nodded. Sam smiled again, but then Cas’s eyes slipped past him and were abruptly riveted on something outside. Sam turned around to look and spotted his brother slinking between the cars out front, clearly doing his best not to be seen.

Sam glowered out at him. _There, Dean_ , he thought irritably. _I’ve cleaned up another one of your messes and paved the way for you to take over—now the rest is your problem!_ And he had better not screw it up again—he had just better get himself sorted out and all the rest of this resolved, and with _out_ Sam’s help. And then Prince Myshkin and Chance the Gardener could live happily ever after—and so could Sam, ‘cause he wouldn’t have to hear about it ever again!

* * *

That had been the plan, anyway. But now, finding Cas down here by himself in the early hours of the morning and Dean nowhere to be found…Sam’s instinct to try to derail his brother’s emotional train wrecks was just too strong. So even though he really didn’t want to know, he found himself asking, “Everything okay with you?”

“Yes.”

The quiet, monosyllabic answer was not terribly reassuring. “Did—did you and Dean…talk, last night?” he queried further. “Get things—sorted out, at all?”

Cas looked up at him, and Sam just stared before his stomach tied itself up in a panicky little knot and tried to crawl up his throat. Cas’s eyes were bright, almost _starry_ , and Sam’s traitorous brain leapt on that and just _ran_ with it, and then Cas was opening his mouth, dear Jesus, he was going to _talk_ , he was going to tell Sam _all_ about it, and he braced himself—

“Yes.”

And then he simply turned back to the window.

Sam blinked. And—that was it? What, he _wasn’t_ going to blithely drop all sorts of TMI on him?

After a moment longer, Sam realized that he was standing there bitching over the fact that Cas _hadn’t_ tried to scar him for life, which was ridiculous. So he just shook himself and, after considering the matter, told Cas to come on over to the stove and Sam would show him how to cook his first meal.

Cas obediently came to stand beside him and listened with far more seriousness than was warranted as Sam showed him how to crack the eggs, told him what Dean had taught him, that a little milk mixed in always made them fluffier, and then Cas stiffly but precisely scrambled the eggs in the pan until Sam told him they were done. A little sprinkle of grated Cheddar on top later, and Sam congratulated him on his first successful breakfast.

They ate in silence, Cas with all the oddly mechanical gusto of the previous day. Sam took care of the dishes; Cas seemed happy to just sit in his private little reverie, looking out the window with that contented expression.

After putting away their plates, Sam wandered across the room, pondering a shower. Cas’s hair was damp; clearly he’d already done so this morning. Really, he looked pretty good today—already a sight better than yesterday. Maybe it was just the way he seemed to be sitting up a little straighter, but he just didn’t look so beaten down this morning. Considering that he’d vomited up the souls of every dead monster since the beginning of the world to date just two days ago, he looked better than he had any right to. The cut on his lip was already healing, the scratches on his cheeks and forehead were scabbed over and not so red, one of the bandages that had been on his neck yesterday was gone, and that dark bruise behind his ear—

_Wait._

Sam squinted at it without thinking. _Was that—were those_ teeth marks _—?_

He spun on his heel and charged out of the room like a shot.

No. He was _not_ going to go there. It did not bear thinking about. He was just going to go upstairs, have a shower, and then he and maybe Bobby were going into town for some clothes for Cas so they could replace that beat-up suit, and that was all. He was not going to think about anything his overactive imagination might or might not try to insinuate. Ever.

After thudding up the stairs and taking a quick detour to the back room for his bag, he made his way to the bathroom. He flicked on the light, and to his annoyance found some familiar clothes sitting in a small pile right in the middle of the room.

 _Great—of all the bad habits he had to pick up from Dean, this one just had to be the first._ Irritated, Sam leaned down and scooped up the old shirt of Dean’s that he’d dressed Cas in last night and folded it up. He’d given him a pair of Dean’s shorts, too, but Cas was such a scrawny little beanpole that when he’d come out of the bathroom, he was literally holding them up to keep them from falling down; Sam had taken pity on him and given him a pair of his longer but narrower shorts.

The same ones that he now leaned down to pick up off the floor. He frowned when something dry and flaky scraped across his fingers, and he brought them up close to look—what was that, had he bled on them or something? There was something crusted on the waistband and the front _OH DEAR GOD JESUS FUCK NO!_

With a helpless shout of horror, Sam _launched_ the shorts across the room, and in the next second was scrabbling at the tap on the sink, yanking on the hot water as far as it would go and then scrubbing wildly at his hands with the soap.

 _Fuck fuck fuck get it_ off _—_

Sam slammed the water off, and then flew across to the tub and jerked open the taps full blast. He peeled off his clothes like a banana skin, twisted the knob to turn on the shower, and then leapt into the tub. The water was too hot, but that was just fine by him ‘cause he didn’t just want to scrub himself clean, he wanted to peel off the outer layers of his skin, too, to _eradicate_ any trace of what he’d just put his hand in! And then he was going to take those shorts out back using the fireplace tongs and salt and burn them—and then he was going to exorcise the ashes!

_Fuck you, Dean! Just FUCK YOU!_

Sam grimaced as he furiously scoured his hands with a soapy washcloth. He was gonna get his brother for this if it was the last thing he ever did. For God’s sake! No matter what, no matter where, no matter _who_ —Dean _always_ found a way to make Sam see something he didn’t want to!

He moved to stand under the spray, screwing up his face at the sight of the lather washing down the drain. And then he could only blow out a breath, halfway between a resigned sigh and a tired laugh as he tilted his head back under the sluice of water. It didn’t really matter how things changed, that Dean and Cas were…whatever they were—because things still pretty much stayed the same.

It seemed that even then, life for Sam and his brother would still manage to go on like it always had—and like it always would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's the end of this fic, but it's only the beginning of our headcanon! Anyone who trawls my journal may have already seen this fic back when I posted it in 2011, but the new fic will be going up now with the same regular update schedule (and don't worry, there will eventually be more porn).
> 
> Thank you all for reading, and we hope you stick around--we spent all of the Season Six Hellatus writing on this AU, and so that means we have enough fic to keep us all busy through the Season Eight Hellatus


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